#bts j-hope scenario | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

namfinessed · 5 months ago

Text

go around - j.hs.

genre: angst, fluff (childhoodcrush! brother'sbestfriend!) (8.2k)

summary: to everyone else, he was the sun but to you, he was always the moon, the light you grabbed onto when you could see nothing.

note: grief is something very close to my heart, i've always struggled with it but i'm slowly starting to learn to live with it, i hope everyone who's experienced loss feels like some kind of relief through this, thank you for reading <3

masterlist

hoseok was sixteen years old when it happened.

you were thirteen.

and he had thought he was too cool for you then.

you were sitting on the other side of the mary-go-round to him, it was the last but one day of the summer camp you were part of, and you looked at him as if he hung the moon in the sky.

and hoseok felt as high as the moon that night.

but he was also sick to his stomach.

"i like you," you didn't look at him as you said it but hoseok could feel that you meant it, that it took a lot for you to get on that mary-go-round with him, spin with him, build the moon in his eyes and then say the words that he believed were stuck in your throat since when you first saw him.

he knew that your brother wouldn't like that you were saying this.

but he knew, even as a kid, that this was the most honest thing anyone's ever told him.

but he was so cool and so close to your brother, who would kill him if hoseok said anything back.

so, he didn't say anything back.

hoseok pursed his lips and looked away. he swears that, to this day, the tears shining in his eyes were nerves and not the frustration that came with not being able to hold you to the moon too.

the silent rejection didn't yet hit your soft eyes and bare heart.

you kept looking at him, hands gripping the handles so tight that your knuckles changed shades between white and pink and your cheeks puffed, excited and nervous breaths still left your lips.

and hoseok didn't want to be cool for a second there, he didn't want to care about your brother at all, maybe he would just let you take him for a bit, just a bit.

but in your thin eyebrows, he saw your brother.

in your veiny hands, he saw your brother.

in your coily, curly hair, he saw your brother.

so, he got off the mary-go-round, he walked away quickly, not pausing to look at you and he sniffed his tears away, he hugged his jacket closer to his body.

tomorrow, he would be fine.

tomorrow, no one would look at him like he was the moon and he would be okay with it.

but hoseok turned around.

the biggest mistake of his life.

the moon you thought him to be, cast a glow on the tears gathering on your chin and his heart wrenched.

he would fix this, he told himself, he would fix all of this.

but the next day, your brother, his best friend, died.

and you never spoke a word to hoseok again.

everything was vibrant when hoseok stepped into your home.

the unkept gardens were now blooming with flowers.

the closed windows were now open and giving a glimpse into the light inside the house.

the home was back to being a home.

he’s seen the transformation take place with his own two eyes over the years and he could confidently conclude that the ten years that cloaked your family and home in darkness were finally nowhere to be found.

and hoseok felt both delight and unease at the development.

“oh honey, you came,” there were few people hoseok could recognize with how they breathed, and your mom, his second mom basically, was one of them.

he didn’t even get to greet her before he was wrapped in a hug that surrounded him with the scent of cinnamon, musky perfume, and somehow, still his best friend.

“of course i did, ma” he kissed the top of her head, his arms not letting her go even if he knew the time for an appropriate hug was up, and she knew it too but she stayed as long as hoseok held her.

and when he let her go, he had to look away from the tears touching her eyelashes.

he probably brought back memories of his friend, maybe he still smelt like his friend too, he doesn’t know but he’s glad if he does.

his best friend’s family was unlike hoseok’s, his own family was distant and cold, and when he became an adult, he cut off all ties with them, he simply couldn’t accept them as family and your mom never let him feel as if he didn’t have one.

“the place is really packed,” hoseok whistled, looking at all the new faces and your mom nodded, “she invited a lot of her friends, i don’t know them but it’s okay, they’re having a good time, you’re here, so it’s all good,” hoseok stiffened at your mention.

you didn’t see him once in the last ten years.

slammed the door on his face.

ignored him even when your mom screamed after you.

locked yourself in your room and never got out if it meant seeing him.

and hoseok learned to accept it, he wouldn’t hang out with him either, especially after what happened.

but it was your birthday and he was invited, by your mom or you, he has no idea but hoseok steels himself to see you at some point in the night.

then, he walks around, introduces himself, ignores the pity that people eye’s throw at him, ignores the sympathetic touches on his arm, ignores the pats on the back and the ‘he must’ve been wonderful to have as a friend’ and he nods because he can’t say that yes, his best friend was an incredible friend until he fucking died.

and suddenly, hoseok wants to punch his best friend, for leaving him with this room of people who didn’t know him but somehow had all the sympathy in the world to shove in his face, for leaving him with no option but to mourn and miss him.

but hoseok was never a good mourner, he was good at going about life normally, good at laughing, good at ignoring his feelings, hoseok wasn’t good at gathering tears in his eyes when he thought of his dead best friend.

after a while, hoseok excuses himself to the bathroom and finds himself in his friend’s room, which remains frozen in time. every poster he hung up, though peeling at the edges on the wall, still stayed, every photo he stuck on top of his bedpost was yellow and faded but again, they stayed.

he doesn’t know how long he stares at their photo, the one they took in the summer camp where hoseok’s head is too small and his arms too thin and wrapped around his friend.

when he ran his fingers over the photo, he didn’t feel anything, he was grazing over hazy memories that he was desperately trying to remember as he got older but they were all slipping away or holding on too tightly at times.

“what the fuck are you doing in jay’s room?”

and he snatches his fingers away from the photo.

as he turns around, he swears he feels his heartbeat in his feet, and no amount of time could ever prepare him to face you.

you’re standing at the door with your arms crossed so defensively over your chest that he’s scared to take a single step forward but something about you, as a sixteen-year-old back then and now, a twenty-six-year-old, always takes his breath away.

and you look so much like jay, from the eyes to the hair to the hands, that he has to look away to breathe again.

“hey,” is all that comes out of hoseok’s mouth and he knows he deserves it when you roll your eyes at him.

“you’re not going to slam the door on me?” he asks and to his surprise, you shake your head, “not this time, my mom might just kill me,” you say while entering through the door and hoseok awkwardly steps around the room to reach where you sit on the bed.

he’s not sure how to feel about your mom having to force you to meet him.

and he’s not sure if he will ever be ready to see you again.

maybe you should’ve slammed the door one last time.

“happy birthday, big numbers now,” hoseok sits five feet away from you on the same bed and he watches your face soften the slightest, “thank you, and yeah, twenty-four doesn’t feel real,” you weakly laugh, falling on the bed and letting your feet dangle off the edge.

“your friends seem fun,” he stayed alert on the edge of the bed, and you nodded half-heartedly, “i guess so, did you meet them?”

“yeah, i said hi and stuff,” hoseok played with his fingers as you sat up again, “they brought up jay?”

“um yeah, they seemed to be very...empathetic about it,” he said, he didn’t know how else to say that your friends' reactions almost made him want to leave the party.

“yeah, they don’t know how to react to dead brothers or best friends, they’re not too bad though,” you laugh again and hoseok just nods, looking away.

for a moment, there’s only silence.

there’s only your breath and his.

there’s only your heartbeat and his.

and hoseok had missed this, he had missed you.

“can you believe it’s been ten years?” he asks because he can’t, he still feels as if it was yesterday that he got the phone call from you.

“i can,” you whisper, “time has been slow for me, so i can,” you’re the one looking away this time and hoseok catches your eyes roaming on the photos stuck above jay’s bed.

“do you want to go downstairs?” you get up from the bed and meet his eyes properly for the first time since you entered the room and he can do nothing but nod.

just before you step out the door, hoseok grabs your hand, immediately dropping it as you stop, “a-are you okay?” he didn’t want to ask you the question that he knows everyone else did but he also wouldn’t sleep that night without asking.

but when you laugh and disappear downstairs, hoseok ends up not sleeping anyway.

“thank you so much for coming by,” hoseok shook his head at your mother with the broadest smile and sweat coating his forehead, “of course ma, you can call me whenever you need help,” he pressed a kiss on the top of her head as he passed her and she pushed her face into his arm.

your mom owned a local restaurant and usually, handled everything from deliveries to cooking to serving and hoseok had chastised her multiple times about it.

even now, looking at the full restaurant, hoseok knew he couldn’t leave her to it.

so, after pushing her into the kitchen, he manned the counter for a while and made light conversation with whoever came by.

it felt strange, after so many years, being back around jay’s family, being back in this restaurant where he spent many days and nights.

he shook his head, refusing to let the memories creep back in.

he was used to this, this was just a routine to him, he always helped out, and he knew jay would do it if he was here.

“she loves you a lot already, you don’t have to do all this,” your voice isn’t something he’s used to though, not here, and hoseok’s palms start sweating immediately.

fuck.

he didn’t even put on a good outfit today.

or even perfume, now that he thinks of it.

and he curses himself when you come into view.

“i do this because i love her a lot,” he says with a smile and you roll your eyes, “yeah i know, it’s annoying,” and he frowns, “why?”

but you just wave a hand at him and go into the kitchen.

and hoseok’s left with ten people waving their bills and money at him, so he plasters a smile on his face and continues working.

after some time passes, you come back out from the kitchen with a scowl on your face and hoseok knows this because he hasn’t stopped his eyes from flickering between the kitchen door and the counter in front of him.

“i’ve got it from here, move,” you bark at him as you reach him and hoseok’s frown deepens at you, “it’s only a couple of people, i’ll finish it, don’t worry,” he reassures you but it only seems to irritate you.

“this isn’t your job, hoseok, just move over,” the glare on your face makes hoseok throw his hands up in the air and step away from the counter.

and he goes to the kitchen, he hugs your mom goodbye and he doesn’t bother with saying anything to you while he leaves because he’s sure you will only curse at him. he’s too exhausted today.

but imagine his surprise when the clock strikes midnight, you are at his door with a few soju bottles, snacks, and a sheepish smile on your face.

what the fuck were you doing at his home?

“um, hi?” he adjusts his t-shirt as he greets you, suddenly too aware of his messy hair and pajama pants as his heart once again beats away from his body.

“can i come in?” you ask sheepishly, and he immediately moves away. as you look around his apartment, hoseok still finds it hard to believe that you’re here.

even as you set up the table with soju glasses and food, he can only follow you in a daze.

“come, sit,” you say as if it wasn’t his home, his table, and his chairs but hoseok obliges and sits down.

a few minutes pass with both of you just fidgeting, looking at and away from each other, scratching your necks, and rubbing your fingers together.

until you finally grab the soju bottle and inch toward him.

you take a deep breath in and hoseok lets one out, “i shouldn’t have been so rude at the store, it’s just,” you speak as you pour soju into a shot glass for him and he sits up in his seat, “jay used to be there all the time.” you swallow, moving the bottle away from him and pouring one for yourself too.

“i was there all the time too, you know that,” hoseok says gently, as if to a child and you nod, “yeah, but it was always you and him, not just you.”

always you and him.

not just you.

and the memories that hoseok tried so hard to keep in his head, started creeping their way onto his sneakers and jeans and slipping away like sand.

the nights they snuck in to steal the leftovers.

the days he spent munching down on snacks that your mom generously gave him and jay.

the evenings where they both fanned each other with rolled-up magazines.

the days he spent admiring you at the counter.

but he couldn’t remember the dates, he couldn’t remember the details like what he was wearing that evening when jay hit him with a wooden fan, what was jay wearing when he got dumped by his girlfriend and cried to hoseok, what would jay think of this moment right now, you in front of him with a couple of soju bottles that were bound to be empty soon?

he shifted in his seat, “i won’t come over anymore, i didn’t know you felt like this,” and you purse your lips, “don’t do that, hoseok.”

“do what?” his eyebrows draw closer and you put down your glass to stare at him straight, “be so understanding and nice, just tell me to fuck off and deal with my shit instead of taking it out on you, hate me a little bit because this isn’t fair to you and you know that too.”

hoseok is stunned to silence for a second.

and he has a feeling that these words weren’t just some sudden outburst, you never spoke without letting your thoughts settle so he knows you’ve felt this for a while.

when he catches your wobbling lip and the way you shove food into your mouth to stop the movement, he knows he’s right and his heart softens even more.

“i’m not going to hate you for missing your brother, y/n.” is all he says before he slides your glass towards him and pours you a shot too.

and for a second, you just eye the glass and then look at him with tears so heavy in your eyes that hoseok is surprised they haven’t rolled down your cheeks.

“i think you’re the only one who doesn’t,” you suck in a breath and take the shot, you barely feel the liquid burn down your throat or the tears that finally release from your eyes.

when he raises his eyebrows at you, you shrug with a sniff and look away.

for the rest of the night, hoseok tries to forget that this was exactly how you looked on the mary-go-around ten years ago.

tears on your jaw.

flushed cheeks.

the same coily hair.

for the rest of the night, hoseok stops himself from falling in love again.

“again!” your mom threw her hands up in delight after winning one more game of ludo that hoseok had brought over.

you groaned and complained loudly to her, face held up by your elbow and hoseok watched with warm eyes as you and your mom argued about the win.

but he also felt acutely, the empty cushion next to him.

“you’re just a sore loser, learn a thing or two from hoseok,” your mom brought him back to the world, unscathed from his best friend’s haunting.

and hoseok nods proudly, dissolving into giggles when you scoff at him and your mom high-fives him.

“you’re letting her win,” you stare pointedly at him as your mom leaves to bring more snacks and hoseok shrugs happily, “guilty as charged,” and ducks with a laugh when a shower of peanut shells gets thrown in his direction.

“i knew it!” you screeched and he fell onto the floor with a belly full of joy, “mom, i told you, he was letting you win,” you stomped into the kitchen and hoseok heard more sounds of an argument from the kitchen, he rolled his eyes in endearment.

that night, you drop him in your car, and the entire ride, you’re laughing, he’s laughing, you’re speaking nonsense, he’s speaking nonsense, you’re falling on the seat to cover your face and he’s pulling his hands over his eyes to cover his face.

and at his door, you look at him with a face so free of everything.

no lines of worry on your forehead.

no frown between your eyebrows.

no hesitance to smile.

just a hint of moonlight falling over the right side of your face and some of your hair.

and hoseok wonders if he looks the same, if he looks just as beautiful and calm.

but when you keep staring at him with those curious, those tender eyes that he feels you reserve just for him, as if he has the answer to everything, as if he was the answer to everything, hoseok’s heart races in panic and buried love.

both of you realize at the same time, that ten minutes had passed and you were about two inches closer than you were at the beginning of the ride.

he stumbles out of the car, you stutter a goodbye to him and he nods hastily, urging you to leave.

that night, once again, hoseok begs himself to stop falling in love.

you only called him once in the many years that he’s known you and it was to tell him that jay had died, it was a freak accident, no one could’ve done anything and hoseok had thought that it was all a dream but your voice, as always, rang true in his ears and he knew that his life, as it was, would change forever.

“hoseok, i-it’s jay, someone hit him with a bike, i don’t know what’s going on, they’re saying they can’t read his pulse, please just come here, p-please.”

your sobs had shaken him so badly that he stumbled out of his camp cabin in his pajamas and he held your mom’s hand the entire time they tried to resurrect jay in the emergency room but once jay flatlined, your mom crumbled in his arms and you ran out of the hospital, you refused to look at him after that night.

and he understands why, he should’ve been there for jay, he should’ve made sure that his best friend didn’t go out for a walk that night or he should’ve gone with jay and been the one to get hit instead.

but it was all over now, and all hoseok was left with was a heavy heart filled with enough guilt for all the years he would live.

so when hoseok’s phone rang in the middle of the night with your name flashing on his screen, his brain unearthed the entire tragedy, the entire night with its roots pulled out of him and he was gasping for breath as he answered.

could it be that something happened to your mom?

did something happen to you?

did something happen to him and everyone else knew but him?

“she’s not letting us call her mom but she said your name, can you come to pick her up?” and twenty minutes later, hoseok pulled up to the only nightclub in the neighborhood to pick you up.

he struggled to hold back a laugh as he saw you draped over your friend’s arms, blissfully drunk, giggling, and utterly exhausted. when he started walking over to you, all of your friends began groaning and complaining to him about you which only made it harder for him not to laugh until your entire weight was shifted onto him and hoseok closed his eyes when you buried your face in his neck, savoring the tender moment.

just like every other minute that he’s alone with you, hoseok can’t believe this minute either.

“i’ve got her from here,” he says, carefully shifting your body to make you more comfortable and you hum in your drunken state, pushing your cheeks further into his collarbones and hoseok tries not to freeze.

“you should join us next time!” your friends all chime in together, their enthusiasm and kind intentions bleed around them and touch hoseok’s heart, maybe he had been too quick to judge them and hoseok gives in, nodding unsurely and they all erupt in cheers which makes him smile.

you had good people around you.

and that made him the happiest person in the world.

as he waves goodbye to them, his hands hold your body closer to him when you start to slide off and all of them exchange looks which hoseok ignores.

he carefully puts you in the passenger seat and pulls off the sidewalk.

he turned up the air conditioner, feeling his body get warmer and warmer as the seconds passed and he forces himself to look at the road and not you.

“hoseok?” the red light glowed on your face when he looked towards you, “yeah, it’s me, just taking you back home,” he doesn’t stop his hands from moving your hair away from your face and caressing your temples with his fingers.

how many years have passed with him missing you?

how many years of loving you has he missed out on?

he doesn’t know how jay would feel about this, maybe he would gag at hoseok’s tender eyes at this moment, perhaps he would tease him but he knows jay wouldn’t hate it.

hoseok pulls back almost immediately as you start to shift, only to relax when your face melts into his fingers.

if it didn’t feel so wrong, hoseok would’ve sat the rest of the night just looking at you and letting the rest of the world pass by.

“don’t take me to mom’s,” you whine and he laughs at your scrunched-up face, “okay, where do you want to go?”

“your’s,” you mumble, and hoseok’s face goes red, it takes him a few minutes and several cars honking at him to come back to earth.

when hoseok carefully lays you on the side of his body and takes you to his bedroom, he bears the torture of your arms tightening around his neck and the torture of your lips accidentally brushing on his skin.

“you like me, right?” you whisper into hoseok’s ear as he covers you with blankets on his bed and he freezes.

when he doesn’t respond, your eyes flutter open, still soft and fuzzy from the alcohol and you ask again, “hoseok, you like me, yes?”

and he’s taken back to the you that asked him out on a mary-go-around, the you that gave him the most honest confession of love in his life, the you that looked at him as if he ripped your heart out.

he nods, “of course i do, we’re family.” and you frown at him.

then, you sit up on the bed and lean forward to hold his face in your hands, hoseok starts sweating under the thin t-shirt he wore, and your fingers touch his face in places that he’s sure didn’t exist before, and every nerve of his melts and burns.

“i’ve always wanted to ask you something,” he says, now that there was no distinction between his breaths and yours and you nod, urging him to go on, “i thought i was always the one who had something to say,” you giggle, falling on his shoulder and hoseok laughs with you.

“why did you start talking to me again? after all this time? it can’t just be because of your mother,” and your laughter vanishes from the air around him, your touch too lifts from his shoulder, and hoseok’s confusion and curiosity grow.

he knows he’s asked the wrong thing, and said the wrong thing, he always does, but why would this question make you so upset?

he just wanted to know why after so many years of ignoring his entire existence, you suddenly chose to come to his home, and suddenly back into his life.

but he also loves that you’re back in his life.

“you don’t have to tell me, go to s-“ he gets up from the bed but is stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist tightly and he sinks back down beside you.

“my reasons are selfish, hoseok,” your tears come back and hoseok is rushing to wipe them away before they ever leave your eyes which only makes them gather faster.

“i don’t care,” he shakes his head and he really doesn’t.

“you should.”

“but i don’t.”

use him, don’t use him, throw him away, or keep him, he’s okay with it all.

your eyes search in his face, any trace of a lie, any trace of dishonesty and you find none that urges you to say, “i need you.”

a strange rush of warmth and bashfulness washes over hoseok as your words run him over.

“it hurts so much and i can’t do this alone, i need you, i just want it to stop hurting,” and hoseok’s heart stops at your broken voice because he knows what’s hurting you and nothing in the world can fix that kind of pain, “i don’t know how to live anymore, every time i come home, i miss him in the space next to my mom, i miss him in the counter that you stand at now, i miss him everywhere and i can’t say this to anyone.”

hoseok barely feels your hands grabbing his as your sobs climb up your throat, “except you, hoseok. no one knows what i feel, it’s pathetic that i miss him still but so do you, i know you feel this too, right?”

and he knows, he knows exactly what it feels like and he also knows that this was building in you since over the past ten years, the same way it’s been building in him.

that sense of loss that never goes away.

that sense of waiting for the relief that comes with moving on, that never came.

that sense of having nowhere to go and cry it out because the rest of the world doesn’t see what it’s lost, only he can and only you can.

“i do,” he finally choked out and your cries grew louder, hoseok winced at the volume and tapped your arms to calm you down but he was barely calm himself.

years and years of his grief catch up to him, run him over, trample over him and his mind ignites with every single second he spent with jay, every single he spent missing jay and then ignoring his memory.

all of it grabs him by the throat and chokes him but he lets your head fall onto his shoulder, and keeps his own tears away from his eyes as your body breaks on him.

when you were kids, hoseok had held you when you were laughing, he had felt your joy go through him, spread onto him, he could feel your happiness as if it was his own.

when you laughed in the car with him, the sound jogged his memory on how to laugh, on how to feel happiness again, he felt it go in and out of him in waves that he couldn’t control.

it was a miracle to him that just by touching someone, you can feel what they feel.

but now, holding you when you were crying, feeling every tear on his own skin, the burden of it all sunk him deeper than he could pull out of but he held you, he wrapped a singular arm around you and buried his head in your hair.

if anyone was going to know that he cried about jay, it was you and if anyone was going to miss jay with you, it was him.

and that night, he let himself fall in love.

the next morning, hoseok woke up with swollen eyes but a happy heart, a less lonely heart, he got up from the couch and entered his bedroom where he spent several minutes just staring at your face and stopped himself from kissing your cheek.

he stepped out of the bedroom quietly, padding his feet as gently as he could on the floor, and started preparing pancakes, hot chocolate, and everything else he could remember as something you liked as a kid.

hoseok couldn’t keep the smile off his face the entire time he whisked the batter, stirred the hot chocolate, and put out the plates. every moment that passed reminded him of you in his bedroom, it made him feel fuzzy and warm and ticklish, as if the sun had come to sit on his shoulder.

finally, his life was falling into place.

he almost jumped in excitement when the sound of his bedroom door creaking echoed throughout his apartment. he peeked around the corner to see you dragging your feet with even more swollen eyes than his and he stifled a laugh.

“good morning, pretty,” hoseok sang and giggled when your groan came as a reply.

“what’s all this?” your eyes barely opened to see the spread of food in front of you and he shrugged, “just some breakfast for you, did you take the aspirin beside the bed?”

you nodded and stood unsurely until hoseok got up and pushed you to sit down gently, “sit down, it’s all still hot, have it soon,” he kissed the top of your head and you stiffened under him.

hoseok quickly stepped away, laughing uncomfortably, and sat down as well.

for the next few minutes, he waited as you took in everything in front of you and his heart raced the entire time.

did he do too much?

was he moving too fast?

but he had already wasted so much time over the years, he wasn’t going to make the same mistak-

“why?”

hoseok frowns at your question, leaning forward to see if he heard it right but when he looks up, he sees your tear-filled eyes and he knows he’s fucked up somehow.

“w-what happened?”

“why are you doing all this?” he doesn’t know if you’re asking him or accusing him of something.

“what do you mean?”

“why.are.you.doing.this?” you punctuate every word with quick breaths and hoseok knows he’s pissed you off.

why or how he’s done that, he has no idea.

“i thought some food would be nice in the morning, especially with your hangover,” he stumbles over his words because he didn’t think he would ever have to explain why he made breakfast for someone.

you stay quiet.

he says your name.

once.

twice.

thrice.

then, you get up from the chair and look at him with both the most anger he’s felt in someone and also, the most pain, “i can’t do this,” you mumble and in the next minute, hoseok’s door is left wide open and your seat is empty.

he watches the food go cold and tries to hold himself together as he clears everything up, all the warmth he felt in the morning disappeared down the same drain that his food went.

and all he could was watch and let it happen.

weeks passed and hoseok dipped in and out of the restaurant, trying to see you, catch a word with you, and try to fix things, but whenever you saw him, you ran away.

whenever he waved to you, you would hesitantly lift your hand and then look away, engaging yourself with someone else.

whenever he called you, you wouldn’t pick up.

his messages remained on delivered.

and hoseok’s heart broke little by little as he saw you intentionally pull away from him.

he couldn’t understand why, you had such a beautiful night together, you had poured your heart out to him and he had done the same to you but somehow, it was as if that night didn’t exist to you.

maybe he read it all wrong?

maybe you just needed him as someone who felt the same as you, who experienced the same grief and here he was, his heart growing wings and the love he buried blooming again.

but you had loved him ten years ago.

and that confession was still fresh in his mind, still the most honest thing he’s heard in his life.

maybe he was stupid for ever thinking that you still felt the same love from ten years ago?

but as his mind replayed your words, ‘i need you’, it didn’t make sense to him that suddenly, you wanted to push him away.

“take these when you go home,” your mom packed him multiple boxes of side dishes and rice and everything else she could cook throughout the day and he nodded, thanking her with a kiss on her head, and headed for the door.

until he heard your voice.

his entire body froze at your presence.

but he’s had enough.

hoseok turned around and started walking with loud steps towards the kitchen, and when you came into his vision, he didn’t feel the warmth or the love or any of the good stuff.

he only felt the hurt that blinded him that morning, he only felt the pain spearing his heart as he threw everything away, he only felt the loneliness that played with him until the late hours of the night.

hoseok knows he’s not the best person but he also knows that he didn’t deserve that.

“you asked me that day, why i was doing all that. let me ask you now, why are you doing this?” he glared right at you, and in the corner of his eyes, he saw your mom glance between the two of you and then duck out of the kitchen.

he will apologize to her later.

in front of him, you tilted your head at him and tried to appear tough by crossing your arms across your chest and staring back at him.

but hoseok is past this, he’s tired of being lonely but he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to feel lonely when he’s in love.

“look, i don’t know what’s going through your mind and i never will until you tell me, but you can’t do this to me, you can’t push and pull whenever you like, i know you’re hurting somehow but i am too, so figure yourself out and then come to me because i know that i’m not alone in this feeling, i know you feel it too.”

with that, hoseok marched out of the kitchen, hugged your mom on the way out and went back to his empty home, where he might’ve felt lonely but he at least didn’t feel miserable.

you will hopefully find your way back to him.

but if you don’t, hoseok’s just going to have to find a way to be okay with that too.

days passed again and hoseok tried to move on.

you didn’t call or message or try to reach him and he took it as a rejection, which was still okay, he would still be okay.

he busied himself with his work, with your mom’s restaurant, and tried to learn how to cook, tried to liven up his apartment with knick-knacks, he took up arts and crafts.

hoseok did everything he could think of and for the most part, he really was okay.

but he also really wasn’t that okay.

he drifted through the days, pushed you out of his mind, and drank a bit from time to time to forget you only to hover his finger over your contact every night, he still kept the blanket you slept on in the corner of his room and not in the laundry basket where it should’ve been.

but still.

he was okay, he told himself, he would go back to some version of himself which was okay.

hoseok walked to the restaurant with his head down, earphones in and counted his steps because he had nothing else to do.

when he reached, he still didn’t look up, he continued to his counter where he removed his hoodie and put on an apron, humming to himself and cleaning the counter up.

until your mom’s shoes came into his view and by the time he looked up, she had grabbed his arm and started shaking him which made him frown.

he looked up to see her tear-streaked face and echoes of her sobs that traveled from her hands to him and the desperate shouts he could only see with his earphones in.

his hands shakily reached up to remove his earphones and then he heard it.

the heart-stopping cries and yells.

hoseok’s eyes went round with panic and he immediately grabbed her body as she fell onto him, he tried his best to soothe her but seeing her tears, was already choking him up.

he tried to keep his panic at bay as he patted her back and tried to make sense of her babbling.

what if something happened to you?

he couldn’t deal with that kind of grief; he wouldn’t survive it.

“she hasn’t picked up a single call,” something did happen to you, and hoseok bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his sobs.

“ma,” he grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes, “please breathe with me,” she nodded, timing her inhalation and exhalation with him and when her sniffles subsided, she told him, “she ran away this morning, i’ve looked everywhere and i’ve called everyone, no one has seen her, i don’t know what to do and the police aren’t doing anything until she’s gone for a day but you know her, she never does this.”

she rambled endlessly to him and hoseok held onto her the entire time, feeling only a bit hurt that she never called him but that wasn’t a concern right now.

at the end of it, he offered her a glass of water, removed his apron, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before heading straight for the door.

“hoseok,” he stopped at her voice, “i only didn’t call you because i know you two aren’t doing well right now, otherwise you know you’re like my son.” and hoseok melted, he smiled and took her hands as he said, “don’t worry about that ma, we’re family, you keep calling people and i’ll try to find her.”

he didn’t know what to feel once he stepped out of the restaurant.

in the restaurant, he could focus on reassuring and comforting your mom, he could place all his energy into caring for her but now, he was alone and he didn’t know what to feel.

hoseok got into his car only to realize he didn’t know where to fucking begin, you could be anywhere by this time, even a different city but he has a feeling that you were not too far.

but he didn’t know that with certainty either.

every thought he had only put him in a chokehold as his mind reeled with every worst-case scenario.

nevertheless, he put his fears aside and started the car.

the next few hours, he drove in every street, looked in every club and café, kept checking his phone some one million times, and stopped at the entrance of his summer camp where his life seemed to begin and end.

jay would’ve had a panic attack if he was here with hoseok right now, hoseok smiled as he thought of how worried jay would’ve been and how he probably would’ve cursed you out after finding you, how he would’ve hugged you and hoseok in relief, how he would never let it happen again.

jay would’ve been so many things if he was still there with hoseok and that killed hoseok every day.

he kept staring at the entrance where he ran out of the day jay died, where he held back his tears and shook his head and told himself that it was all a lie, that his best friend was still alive.

hoseok threw his head back on his car seat.

grief was so unfair; it took away so much and left him with so little.

if it was so hard for him, he couldn’t imagine how much more angry or sad grief would’ve made you over the years.

and just as he blinks back tears, his phone rings and he runs his hand over his face to answer it, “ma, i’m still out, don’t worry, we’ll find her,” he starts reassuring only to hear nothing on the other end.

“hello?” he frowns.

“hoseok?”

and he almost drops his phone in relief.

“god, are you okay?” he immediately sits up, starting the car again, “where are you? i’m coming to get you right now, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“why aren’t you home?”

“huh?”

“why aren’t you home right now?”

“are you at my place?” hoseok frown becomes even deeper and he knows your silence only means one thing, he sighs out, “stay there.”

and he’s turning the car, calling your mom to tell her the news, and feeling a hundred different emotions as he reaches the lane of his apartment.

right by his door, he finds you, sitting on the floor with your knees to your chest and the rocks slid off his shoulders, he feels air enter his chest at the sight of you, unharmed and safe and breathing and…alive.

he doesn’t know why he’d even thought as far as you being dead but he couldn’t help it.

it was midnight but the moonlight, as always, found you and your tears, and hoseok sat right next to you and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“why didn’t you say anything back?” he hears you mumble and he frowns, “when?”

“that day in summer camp, when i told you i liked you, why didn’t you say anything back?”

and hoseok sighs, the secret he’s held in his heart for as long as he remembers, starts crawling up his throat, “i like you too,” and his lack of using the past tense has you sitting up straight, tears now reduced to sniffles.

“you do?” and the way you ask it almost has him hitting his own head, how did he ever let you think otherwise?

“i would be crazy if i didn’t,” he smiles weakly at you, his heart suddenly exposed and raw and beating louder than it ever has before, and you fall back on the wall, “but you just walked away then.”

and hoseok knows he can’t hide it anymore.

“i didn’t say anything because i went to jay,” hoseok recalls how cold the night was, how quick his steps were to reach his best friend and he watches your face light up and fall, all in just seconds.

“i needed to ask him if it was okay, i needed to tell him that i liked his sister and that i wanted to take care of her, and he didn’t like it,” hoseok shakes his head, a strained laugh leaving his lips, “we fought all night, but i guess he saw how much i meant it, so he gave me his blessing,” he looks up at you and you’re closing your eyes, letting your head fall back.

“he gave us his blessing, y/n, he did and that’s why i’ve never given up on you, he was so dramatic about it, you would’ve hit him if you saw him say it,” he laughs, the memory still so fresh of jay hugging hoseok and whispering to him that he would be dead the next second if he ever hurt you, how jay stopped himself from smiling as he thought of you with him.

he kept that close to his heart and never told anyone about it, it was for him and jay until today but now, it was for you too.

every time he felt bitter over the years that you avoided him, hoseok reminded himself that he loved you and he always will, and jay would love that hoseok loved you.

and you’re holding back sobs that still escape and tear into the world.

“i’m sorry,” he hears you say and he hums before placing your head on his shoulder, he tries not to cry when he feels your sobs, he sniffles and looks at his feet.

“i was so scared that morning, i told you everything i’ve never told anyone the night before and you still treated me with love, i thought you would tell me to leave, that you would finally have had enough but you didn’t and it still scared me. you shouldn’t be in my life hoseok, i will ruin you,” his heart sinks and hoseok moves closer to you because he doesn’t know where he belongs if it’s not beside you.

“i don’t want to be anywhere else,” he says and presses his hand to the side of your head.

“i can’t stop missing him, hoseok, i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you shake your head and he sighs, feeling his throat close up.

“i miss him too.”

“but it’s been so long and i feel like i should move on by now, i don’t know,” you mumble, your tears falling into his shirt and skin.

“jay’s not some ancient history but i think he would hate both of us for being stuck like this.”

“i don’t know another way to live.”

“neither do i,” he shrugs, he knows how lonely he’s felt, how solitary his life was but, “but it will always hurt, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, you lost a brother, a companion for life, i lost a best friend, my soulmate and it’s always going to hurt. but i don’t want either of us to be alone in that pain, we don’t deserve that.”

life can take everything away from him but if we had a few good people and he could love those people, that was enough for him.

“it’s about time we start living for jay, do everything he would’ve done, feel everything he would’ve felt, and keep him alive, don’t you think so?”

and when you nod, fall on his shoulder, and whisper your love to him, it’s just like the first time, the most honest words he’s heard in his life.

hoseok knows his life can sometimes feel empty but sometimes, like right now, it can feel so full that he wouldn’t know what to do with all the love he gave and received.

he whispers his love back to you.

until dawn, you cried on his shoulder, and in the morning, hoseok made breakfast for you, you kissed him and whispered your thanks, he kissed you and whispered his love again, and you smiled and ate the food he made.

and it was calm, normal, another day but everything had changed once again for hoseok.

because this time, he had you and you had him, and in both your hearts and minds, you had jay.

and you learned to live life again, with love, and not just regret, with happiness, and not just guilt.

you lived, not just to grieve and mourn, but to actually live and build a life, with hoseok right by your side. he lived, without

taglist: @blissingtaehyung @cuteipat @hobicorewhore @yoongleskitten @mrjeonghan @greenie-frog @avawants2havefun @an-ever-angry-bi @alyenorgondorwarrior thank you all so much for liking the preview, i hope you enjoy the full fic <3]

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stopaskinf · 1 month ago

Text

Sexy/Romantic things BTS men do:

Genre: FLUFF‼️‼️‼️These bitches are WHIPPED, GN! Reader for the most part

CW: None really

A/N: I really just be on here huh. I had this idea awhile back , and I’ve finally gotten around to posting it. Hope yall enjoy ✌🏾

———————————————————————————

Yoongi & V: Stares at you intently

There lies a man absolutely entranced by you. He stares so hard that it could burn your skin. He’s examined you so closely that he could tell you every detail of yourself. How your brows furrow and your lips pout whenever you can’t find the word for something. Your lips curve into a smirk whenever you say your “s” . Your upper canines peak out mid sentence whenever you rant like a mad dog; meanwhile your hands make grand, sweeping gestures that make everything you say seem like a grand adventure. When you inevitably catch them in their unsubtle act, they continue staring. After all, they would never wanna look at anything else.

Jhope, Jin(?): Buys you things

Mr. Moneybags. He has money just for you to spend. A man who will want for nothing, but will serve the world to you with a gold leaf. Luxury restaurants with names neither of you can pronounce. Shoes painted crimson on the sole with ruby rings to match. Nothing is out of your reach with him.

Namjoon, Tae, Jungkook: holds your hand and rubs his thumb on your knuckles

Comfort exists solely within this man. Soft hands with only slight calluses that hold yours in a featherlight grip. His thumb rubs over your knuckles in small circles and figure eights. He’s hardly aware that he’s doing it. He’s ingrained it within himself to be your haven.

Namjoon, Jimin: Text you things that remind him of you

Frogs. Lilies. Marigolds. Daisies. Bright red mushrooms with dots. Poems addressed to a long-ago lover. TikToks with love confessions playing in the background. Slow ballads soothe you with their lavender voice and adoring lyrics. Events for things you’re interested in. A photo of you asleep on his chest he took of you last night. A stranger’s poodle called Pepper. Knitted cardigans covered with embroidered stars and moons. The moon standing next to the sun during a pink sunset. A small Polaroid of you smiling that he found lying in the back of his studio. These things fill his camera roll until he inevitably sends them to you. He needs you to know that he always thinks of you.

Namjoon, Yoongi: Send you paragraphs and poems

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”

“Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life”

Sentences strung together by loose words and ends in the late nights when he has you on his mind. A painful yearning that existed before you that you dissipated with your being; though it comes back stronger when you leave. Love poems written by him or long dead writers to help him release his emotions. His devotion towards you needs to be known by you in simple language and consciousness. If not, he’ll ruin himself.

Namjoon, Jungkook, Tae: Always has his body facing you

A physical sign of devotion. “My attention is always on you” Head slightly tilted to better catch a glimpse at you, shoulders and back slightly slouched in a relaxed position, his feet facing towards you; his eyes half lidded as his pupils bounce from your eyes, lips, and nose. He tries his best to keep his hands steady, lest he grabs you. He could be in a room full of people and there would be no mistake as to who he’s looking at.

Yoongi, Namjoon, Tae: Asks if he can kiss you

Consent king.

“Can I kiss you?”

Simple. Straightforward. Nerve wrecking. A small question that holds so much vulnerability and weight. Displaying his need to communicate his scorching love through his flesh, but wishing death on himself before he makes you uncomfortable.

“Only if you want to.”

A sign that he’ll put any desire back if you don’t reciprocate it. You’re the only one controlling his world; he won’t forsake you.

Jin, Yoongi, Jungkook, Tae: Answers your texts right away

He’s never been a bad texter, but there is no wait when it comes to you. The thought of making you wait for anything has never entered his mind. He knows how doubt and anxiety can cripple the mind. He does his best to ensure you don’t have to face that with him. Texts sent a minute ago will get a reply in seconds. He’ll never keep you waiting.

Tae, Jungkook: lays his head on top of yours

His warm embrace. Long arms wrapped around you tightly as if he lets go for a moment you’ll vanish like a sweet dream. Your sweet scent mixed in with his cologne, cigarette smoke, and natural musk. Your face is in the crook of his neck; your nose and long lashes tickle his nape. He feels your hot breath warm his skin, but hates how his face feels detached. His eyes can’t bear to look at the wall ahead of him when he has you. He lays his head down into your hair, smelling the crown of your hair; he closes his eyes and snuggles further into your locs. If he could, he’d crawl into your skin and never leave its warm, suffocating embrace; however, laying his head on yours will do for now.

Yoongi, Namjoon, jhope: gives you stuff

Gift-giving couldn’t be considered his first love language; although, he can’t help but attend to you. Old books covered with dog tags, highlighted passages, and small handwritten notes. A beaded bracelet he made on live. A whale-shaped cutting board that you can’t bring yourself to use out of fear of damaging it. All things he gives to show how much he thinks of you.

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jungkoode · 3 days ago

Text

OFF-LABELS

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: January 30, 2025.

→ NARRATED AUDIO:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

→ A/N: So. Listen. I was out there, freezing my ass off at the bus stop, cursing my life choices because why am I even going to the gym at ungodly hours??? And then—THEN—the bus just had the audacity to drive right past me. Love that. Amazing. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: opened my notes app and started writing instead of using those 45 minutes to, idk, reconsider my entire existence. And thus, Off-Labels was born. This drabble? It’s about the kind of man who is dangerous in the most insidious way—intelligent, competent, and hiding behind a veneer of plausible deniability like it’s a damn art form. You know he knows what he’s doing to you. You know he’s aware of the effect he has. But can you prove it? No. Because he’s just so nice. So helpful. So unintentionally devastating to your nervous system. It’s honestly sick and twisted and exactly my type. Am I a menace? Absolutely. First installment in what might become a series because apparently I can't stop writing about competent men in medical settings using anatomical terms as foreplay. Will I be taking criticism? Absolutely not. ❤️‍🩹🩺

You don’t believe in stories like in books.

Sure, you like to read them—disappear into them, let them pull you under like a riptide until you forget about deadlines and midterms and the existential dread of being a twenty-something who still doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But that’s all they are.

Stories.

Fantasies about tragic, fated loves and brooding billionaires and dangerous men with wings. You like them because they’re not real. Because it’s fun to pretend, for a little while, that you’re the kind of girl who’s got a winged fae warrior at her feet. Or a CEO husband who calls her darling in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Or—God forbid—her hot math teacher, who lets her stay after class for extra lessons.

Or your brother’s best friend’s secret hookup.

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. “Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical intern hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I aced neuro last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

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hoseoksluna · 7 months ago

Text

CRANBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and... hyeonwol)

genre: heavy smut, angst

word count: 18.4k

summary: the final breaking of the curse hurts, but pain brings fruit.

pinterest board: cranberries / taglist: join

warnings: physical violence, fight, daddy issues, alcohol consumption, smoking, thigh humping, female masturbation, use of a vibrator, squirting, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), raw sex, conception, fears of infertility, finger sucking

note: THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE BERRIES SERIES WHAT. i can't breathe, i can't speak. i wrote the moment i woke up and it's now 4pm. ran out of cigs. :( i was so emotional as i was in this world with them and i love them. so much. i'm so excited for you to read this. i had iffy feelings about this series in the beginning, but that has changed. i love every chapter, every detail, every moment. and i think i did a good job. so, enjoy this. i poured my entire heart into this. my issues, personal experiences, everything. it means a lot to me. i love you, guys. i'm happy to give this to you after two long weeks! HAPPY READING.

side note: please, do check out the pinterest board. i'll add pics of every place oc and hobi have been. <3 SPAM MY INBOX. I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

The sleep lines are paused shooting stars across his back. The dips and definition pools of refreshment for those dimmed lights and when you cross over the threshold with Hobi right behind you, with his finger hooked over the waistband of your ivory mini skirt, your own fingers gain feeling. Much to your dismay, they remember the sharpness of those lines, the stickiness of his sweat as his body boiled during any weather he slept through.

He must have been on the brink of awakening, for you didn’t wait long before he answered the door. His gray curtains are pulled in and Jungkook walks over them, invites in the light of the early afternoon. In your peripheral vision, you recognize that the easel, which holds the painting in all its glory, is right there on your left side, and you strain your eyes to remain fixed on his bare back, even as wrong as that is. Hobi’s word of advice regarding thinking twice before you look at the artwork are pink blossoms that begin to grow in your ribs, spreading down to your stomach—because whether you like it or not, the place you find yourself to be in used to be one of absolute safety.

It used to be your home, once upon a time.

Cold, cold home that only ever reached tepidity at best. It’s all you ever knew—as the home you grew up in with your parents invariably had the same temperature. The same energy, too, charged with silence, ignorance and very little care that seldom carried love.

Which brings a certain thought to the front of your head, just as Jungkook is bathed in light, arms extended as if he bore wings.

He never loved you.

Because if he did, then his home and the memories that are rushing in would feel the way Hobi feels.

And like Hobi carried the false beauty in his heart, in his life—in the form of the poetry book—you carried the false perception of safety. If Hobi wasn’t here, if the stability of his antique stature wasn’t a wall doused in rain-kissed humidity that you now feel your body gravitating towards, and even if his finger wasn’t hooked behind your skirt, you wouldn’t feel safe.

But on the other hand, softness coats Jungkook. Strange, strange softness that you haven’t seen in ages. Since the first days of your relationship, the first dates, the first kisses and touches, for everything you did with Jungkook was different each time, never the same until his life story shared with his childhood best friend ended on bad terms and the guy moved across the sea. It’s what triggered his mental issues that in the long run ended your story with him.

As it seems, Jungkook has been trying to write a sequel that was never meant to exist.

He bends over his coffee table and it is only now that you notice the clutter of crumpled tissues that he now picks up. Bile scratches your throat as needles prick it because it dawns on you fairly quickly what those issues served him for. A blanket is strewn over the backrest of his leather couch and a singular, flat pillow is propped against the armrest. He slept on it during the night; had a perfect view of the painting right across from him. And if your mind serves you well, he sent that picture in the middle of the night, in which he deliberately showed you that creating the message sexually thrilled him.

It’s not hard to pinpoint that he fist-fucked himself while looking at the painting. And by the number of tissues that he hides in his palms and throws away in the bin in the kitchen, it’s evident his gratification process took a long, long time.

You anticipate the bile pouring out of your throat again, but… it never comes. Oddly, it’s second-hand embarrassment that you sense swirling in the cranberry lumps of your bloodstream, its fumes drooping your pink blossoms, your veins thick and ghastly on your wrists. And while you should feel disgusted, for some reason you don’t.

The discovery added magnitude to the star of his softness, weightiness and substance. It made it more real, bigger. It envelops him, confusing your mind because the only way it allows you to remember him is through the pain he caused you, using the expression of his fury. He broke your heart. Degraded you. Handled you harshly. Threw away your vape. Made you lose the respect you had for him, the worship you carried in the back of your heart. This can’t be the same person, kissed by a good night’s sleep.

You don’t recognize him and you feel so out of place, standing in the middle of an obscure, amorphous dream that you’re trying to remember. A bizarre, uncanny feeling. You wish to run—as it lessens your form into that milky blue aura of smallness, but not in the way you like. Your body pleads to stand behind Hobi and clutch the back of his shirt in your fists while he steps in and makes order. But the energy around is too light, too gentle for a fight.

Which is why you’re not sure if it’s a good idea that Hobi should unfurl his plan here.

Hobi looks down at you as Jungkook answers his phone in the kitchen. You didn’t hear a thing due to the way you were lost in your thoughts and your confusion deepens as you regard the crooked furrow of his brow and the pinpricks of his pupils. Hobi wraps his arm low on your waist, tugging you flush to his side, kissing the plane of your head, lingering there for a second more as he inhales the natural scent of your hair. One you didn’t wash today, for he kept you busy. You fear he can smell your puke on you from earlier, despite the fact you almost sprayed the entirety of your vanilla perfume on yourself that you carry in your purse before you and him left together. You grow insecure, lessening furthermore.

“Do I stink?” you ask, hushedly, gazing up at him with intention, willing him to answer you truthfully. Hobi smiles down at you, tenderly, pleased with the hint of familiarity and normalcy in the middle of the battlefield. Inhaling your scent and touching you diminished the intensity of the bloodthirst in his eyes and you’re glad for it. You hope that he perceives the elephant in the room and doesn’t strike first, but knowing how smart he is, you trust that he will, if he hasn’t already.

Hobi doesn’t answer you. His smile falls as briskly as it appeared and his head swivels in the direction of the kitchen, features tight and startling. Your heart ceases its beat for a second before it speeds up, thumping painfully against your ribcage. What did Jungkook say over the phone? You weren’t paying attention.

He lets go of you and stomps over to the kitchen. His back faces you, bringing your consciousness into present time, shudders with long staccatos of breaths. He’s fuming. Concern crawls up your back, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“So, that’s what you do? You traumatize my girlfriend while you have someone else on the side?” Hobi says, brusquely, placing his fists on his hips. “Does she know you paint degrading pictures of your ex in your spare time?”

A beat of silence. Your breath hitches in your throat.

Your blood freezes over and you don’t know how your legs take you over to Hobi, weak and tingling as they are. You can’t feel anything. Can’t feel your fingers as they hook over his back pocket, your inner child’s deepest wish infiltrating through reality.

Jungkook worries his bottom lip, his phone still held over his ear, and he exhales, shortly through his nose, dropping his gaze. “I’ll call you back.”

He throws the phone over the kitchen island, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he so often does, staring Hobi down.

There’s no doubt she heard it. Hobi said it loud enough.

Good.

Good of Hobi to take the ruination by its legs and launch it back at its creator. You change your mind by the shift of the energy, having foolishly forgotten the girl personification of the storm that you saw by Jungkook’s side in the museum. She has no idea how preoccupied he’s been with you, chasing you down ever since he laid his eyes on you after nearly a month. And you pity her. She doesn’t deserve this kind of unfair treatment, no matter the hostility she showed you and the fraction of the same emotion you felt towards her in return.

Jungkook had it coming, that’s what you’re sure of now—sowing the seeds of his downfall in your orchard. What he didn’t know was that by staying around, hurting not just you, but another vulnerable person at the same time, he would also reap its poisonous growth. You hope his hands are red and burning, pulling out the weeds and poison ivy.

He leans against the kitchen counter, the muscle of his pierced brow quivering with the onrush of anger. You find it so pathetic that you almost dryly snicker, backed by the continuous, fatherly act of Hobi standing up for you—your antique wall, the architecture of the old, Mediterranean times.

Strong and unwilling to break under pressure.

“My personal life is none of your business—”

“And mine is?” Hobi interrupts him, leaning forward due to the influence of his own anger and the sight is horrifying. If you were in Jungkook’s place, you’d be trembling like a sissy. Hobi laughs, scornfully, doing it for you and your heart rejoices. “You stalked my wife, touched her, painted that shitty—”

Wife.

“I didn’t stalk her,” Jungkook says, awfully calmly, as if he were bored, despite the tremor of his pierced brow that divulges the true face of his feelings. “Wife?” He laughs, humorlessly, and you bunch your fists, letting go of your private, personal link to Hobi. Even though you swore you wouldn’t raise them again when facing him, it’s all you want to do now for the way he mocked something so meaningful to you. Raise them and use them until they bruise.

The concern that hung over your back fades into a discomposure that slices over your skin with a blunt knife. Over and over, maddened by the incessant rampage to cause you pain, incited by his mockery. Won’t let up until blood pours out.

“Don’t talk over me, I wasn’t finished,” Hobi scolds and your second-hand embarrassment for the opponent doubles, abating your discomposure just like that.

The knife is lifted in the air, paused.

Jungkook’s jaw begins to tremble, disliking the easiness to Hobi’s overpowering tendencies, the way his stern words force him to become that aforementioned sissy that you’d be in his place. You think it suits him right.

“You shamed my—” Hobi points to his heart, like Jungkook did last night when he bared his feelings for you and your throat dries, unbelief peculiarly setting your discomposure free at the rightful turning of tables. “Wife for moving on with her life, for becoming the person she needed to become without you controlling her. Sent her a picture of your dick while you were at it, belittling her, using sex to lure her back to you as if she wasn’t smart, as if she wasn’t mine. You did all that and you think you’re gonna come out of this unscathed? Let your girlfriend see what you’ve done. What, you were going to hide that painting under your bed like a little bitch?”

It’s Hobi who laughs now, the sound full of that same mockery Jungkook used to inflict pain. You wrap a hand around his arm, coming over to stand side by side with him, sliding your hand down to his, needing it and not being afraid of it. Not to his palm, but over the back of his hand, slipping your fingers through his. And together you clench that singular fist, stronger.

You thought all your life that you were stupid. Your own Father bashed you for it every chance he had; you, yourself, hated your being for it with all your might. Thought it was the root of the curse over your life, made strong by your bad decisions, bad actions, bad footfalls. Learning that Hobi doesn’t regard you as such cuts that majority of your life away from you. He binds up your wounds, cleaning them. And the fact he put two and two together apropos the meaning of the painting, the reason behind the punishment, using your recitation of the bizarre poem is a kiss to make the boo-boo better.

You weep, silently. Your love for Hobi trickles out of your tear ducts, doesn’t touch your makeup, doesn’t steal the attention of the two males away from each other. It dips into your ribcage through your chest, sprucing them until they can breathe again and fill your lungs with sweetened, poetic air, with a will to live on, reminding you that you have a future ahead of you that is beautiful and bereft of the curse and all you’ve ever known.

And you wash that breath, purposefully, over the bare skin of Hobi’s warmth. Remind him, too, as you press your lips over it. He squeezes yours and his united fist, hearing you.

Lifting your gaze, Jungkook crosses his arms over his chest, devoid of those sleep lines. His biceps bulge, but it does nothing to you. Hobi’s fixing of your dignity, heart and life has taken care of that, all via that sonnet of his that he spat in Jungkook’s face, one that contorts in envy upon seeing your intertwined hand with Hobi’s. He nibbles on his bottom lip, eyes wetting, but the following words he says sting as if his face never wore those softened emotions. And the discomposure returns in the form of a colossal spider on your back. A slimy, heavy, breathing spider.

You cringe, tensing your muscles, nuzzling your body deeper into Hobi’s arm. It only menaces your vivaciousness, but the fluff on your body stands on end, nonetheless.

“She came here to look at the painting. I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he mutters, crossing his leg. Double protection. He’s stuck in a peril—feels vulnerable and threatened, just like Hobi said. “She likes being spanked, being punished. That’s why she’s here.”

It takes two seconds for Hobi to release your hand and slap him like the little bitch he is. A fatherly discipline, that hard swoop of the back of his hand, a new line indenting his carmine face, one belonging to the ring on Hobi’s middle finger. Absolutely humiliating, that act you are a witness to—but you don’t feel a slither of pity for him. The joy from your heart springs to your eyes and you feel yourself blinking unorthodoxly—more briskly, serenely, femininely.

The spider jumps off your back, afraid of Hobi. You sigh in relief, willing strength into your knees as they signify their giving out on you, boneless as they are.

And Jungkook is afraid, too, once he recuperates from the hit, straightening, but not facing the king. His mouth rounds as if he were on the verge of crying, and maybe he is. He focuses on stalling the natural flow of his emotions, his pride forbidding him from being weak, even as he’s getting hit like a teenage boy.

But Hobi makes him look at him. He grabs his face, repeating the motion of last night; squeezing his cheeks until his knuckles turn white, although this time Jungkook doesn’t moan in pain. He scrambles the last of that pride of his, threading it into the stiflement of his reaction.

“Are you that dumb that you forgot about what I told you that would happen if I heard those words come out of your mouth again?” he seethes in his face. Jungkook sucks in quick breaths, a caged animal, furious. “You degraded her again. You’re asking for it at this point.” He slaps him again, harder this time, still with the back of his hand. Doesn’t give him time to shake it off. Grabs him in the same way. “I’ll let you know that those words you read in that little message? That probably made your dick hard? Those were my words, boy. I came here to break that painting, but I changed my mind. I want your girlfriend to see the work of your hands.”

Hobi told him the true story while he omitted the detail he could’ve used to inflict further pain on him. He could’ve said that he told you to write that message after he was done fucking your trauma out of you. He could’ve rubbed that in his face and you wouldn’t mind.

But he didn’t.

He respects you. Protects your dignity. Doesn’t need to flaunt his private life with you; isn’t insecure to do something like that. And along with joy, he installs something within you that you lacked all your life.

A respect, a high regard and an expensive love for yourself.

You stand straighter, all of a sudden.

Jungkook looks at you. A rawness of pain daubs his even softer eyes, but you recognize that it’s all pretense, a manipulation technique that you see right through. You lift your chin higher, interlocking your hands behind your back. A powerful, feminine stance. His eyes descend to your pride in the middle of your breasts, drench as he mumbles something your way that you can’t comprehend due to the way Hobi squeezes his cheeks harder, that moan of pain slipping through, at last.

You smile, sensing the end of this chapter. You can see the door to it, wide open, Hobi standing by it, gripping the doorknob. And he shuts it with his following words.

“Don’t even look at her. It’s over. The little game you’re playing? You lost,” Hobi says and lets him go. Jungkook grumbles, baring his teeth, his hand shaking as he lifts it to his jaw as if to rub away the pain, but he changes his mind at the last minute. Doesn’t want to show his weakness. His hand falls, flaccidly, to the side. Throws Hobi’s way a dirty look that makes you laugh.

“It’s over,” you intone along, lips stretched in a glinting grin, the crown of your victory. You’re the queen to your king. Jungkook gazes at you with a puppy’s sadness, for a mere second before Hobi pushes his head away from your direction with a poke of his fingers. His inhales are sharp and thunderous and you think he’d be a perfect match to his companion, that is if he were a good guy, deserving of her.

“Did you even see the painting?” he hushes out, head still turned towards the windows, and the redness on his face inflames in vibrancy, darkening. Why he thinks he needs to keep fighting, in spite of the way Hobi overthrew him, is beyond you. His head slowly swivels back to face you and tears cloud his eyes. It inspires no pity in you, no curiosity to look behind you at the painting. “I made the background an imitation of Monet’s waterlilies. The green ones, the ones you’ve always liked. Does that mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that I still care—”

“No,” you interrupt him and you bask in it, inhale the power. Your pink blossoms grow in abundance, becoming a collection of beauty and strength that will live on forever, never to wither. “I didn’t look at the painting and I refuse to because I don’t care.”

You open your mouth to continue, but he outruns you.

“So, you lied to me? Why are you here, then?”

The wheels seem to whirr in his brain, at last.

“My husband and I came here to make one thing clear,” you explain and you flick your eyes to Hobi just in time to catch him smiling at you, fondly, his loving pride bursting through his own pools. “It’s over. You’re not gonna bother me anymore; you’re not gonna text me, call me. In fact—” You pull out your phone out of your front pocket and unlock it, tapping on Jungkook’s contact and blocking him, deleting the number right away. “You can’t anymore.” You smile, satisfied with your decision. “I live a happy life without you and it’s going to stay that way.”

Jungkook’s posture slouches and he wrinkles his brows, mouth agape, downturned. “Husband? What the fuck is this?”

You only lift your hand in the air, for Hobi to take, dismissing him once and for all. “Let’s go.”

You take a step back as Hobi rushes to you in a comical, endearing way, a huge smile engraving crinkles by his glimmering, pearlescent eyes. He takes your hand and when you look at Jungkook one last time to say goodbye to him, he whimpers like a wounded animal.

Your heart constricts, not touched by pity, but by discomfort. It’s time to leave; you don’t want to be here anymore.

Hobi leads you towards the door and you follow him, but Jungkook’s final words halt your footsteps. Hobi’s too.

“I can be like him and better when he drops you. Don’t forget that.”

You frown at him, your mouth pressed in a tight line. “There’s no when to me and you. I never want to see you again. Goodbye, Jungkook.”

He mewls, the final kick to his bruised body and you leave.

You leave his life for good.

The air of the afternoon’s breath is floral. You thought the clouds would’ve smothered the last remains of the summer, but it is still, most strangely, in full bloom. You feel hot in Hobi’s linen shirt and the sun is scorching hot, balmy and paradisiacal on your bare thighs, though you wish you hadn’t worn your Nike’s. Your toes are asking for some sand, for the pecks of sea waves and the entanglement of seaweed around them like tropical adornment of toe rings.

You met the girl, the personification of storm, behind the door to his apartment. She was about to rack her knuckles on the wood like you did, but Hobi opened the door for her. Her breath hitched in her throat, hard and heavy like the wind during that storm she resembles so much, and you felt bad for her. So much that you told her to leave him, unabashedly and plainly, and didn’t stick around to hear her response.

But you did hear muffled sounds of vocal violence and you prayed, for the first time in your life, to someone in the sky, who has always been a witness to your curse and never did a thing about it, to guide her to break that painting in two.

Not for your healing, not at all. But for the curse to be unleashed on him, turned to him and fixed on him.

You’re not ashamed to carry such evil in your heart. You know, full well, that it will dull overtime. Your mother would’ve rebuked you, told you to forgive your enemies and wish them well, but bricking up your heart for him to feel safe is something she would never understand. Because if she did, she wouldn’t share the same home with your Father. And if she did, you would’ve never ended up with a guy like Jungkook that was the raw epitome of him.

It’s a good thing she’ll never learn of your secret. She never met Jungkook but she looks at his face every day, and you’re not so sure if the idea of introducing Hobi to her is pleasant. You sense the time you find yourself to be in is meant to be a solitary one, spent in a bubble with your husband, and there’s nothing you want more.

You and Hobi, alone.

For a little while before a little creature comes along.

The mountain peak is awaiting—you feel it profoundly in your bones.

Hobi opens the door to his car for you, places a hand on the edge of his vehicle so you don’t hurt your head as you sit down—like he did on your first date. But he doesn’t close the door and walk over to the driver’s seat. No, he straddles you. Pushes your seat back a little in order for you to have a perfect and comfortable view of him. You sputter out your giggles, felicitously confused by his actions, and when he props his hands by your head, his smile quivering in effort to not laugh along with you, your giggles rise in volume.

And then his gaze deepens on you, lessening the pitch. Seriousness shrouds the energy, your little giggles ringing, faintly, and you press your thighs together between his legs.

“I’m not fucking you here,” you whisper, the sound full of humor, your eyes feignedly widened, but Hobi is deep in thought, his imaginary wings furling and unfurling in the spaciousness of his car.

“How do you feel?” he asks, steeped in that earnest, warm and lightweight solemnity. It feels like home. That question, too.

You relax, your expression of joy fading into a comfortable silence and you take a moment to focus on what you’re feeling right now.

A graze of the pink blossoms on the inside of your ribs. Relief, a wave sloshing over them. Freedom, the sunlight that heats up that body of water. Joy—a full rainbow of joy after a century-long rainfall.

And you tell him.

“I feel free. Happy. I feel happy, Hobi.”

He smiles, fondly, that blush rolling over his cheeks like it always does. And you love him, irrevocably. You love him, you love him, you love him.

He did this, your God. It’s the creation of his clean hands.

And as he kisses the tip of your nose, you thank him with the same earnestness he brought in.

And you mean it. You would’ve died, had he not found you. You would’ve died, had you not taken him to that museum. You think about what your life would’ve looked like if you never suggested that place, but your mind stumbles upon a dead end. You can’t—there’s nothingness up ahead.

It was meant to happen this way. Along with the pain, the tears, the scars. If it never ached this much, it wouldn’t matter; it wouldn’t have the gravity, the substance, the meaning. It would’ve been plain and it wouldn’t change your life so devastatingly, so beautifully.

You wouldn’t have wings and neither would he.

You kiss him right back on that slender nose of his and much to your surprise, he gives his voice over to your heart.

“I love you,” he confesses, the pearls in his eyes wetting, and he cradles your face. Your heart stops and then beats differently—in a way you never heard it sing before. “Is it too soon to say that?”

Another surprise comes. A tear trickles down your cheek, a happy, elated, small rivulet that cleanses the last, difficult events that just ended. Down your cheek that stretches and aches, blissfully, as you smile up at him.

“Is it too soon to say that I love you, too?”

The song melts into another poetic stanza and Hobi kisses you. But he smiles as well, so the kiss is full of clashing of teeth and sudden hunger to express the fulfillment of that love. You and him try and try again until your lips mold into his and the hard kiss, filled with passion, respect and devotion, splits the curse in two.

Now the residue, the smithereens only need to be fucked out of you.

Hobi will do a good job, no doubt.

“Let’s celebrate.”

Hobi was eyeing a bottle of soju in a market nearby his house, but settled eventually for a bottle of spirits that he’s now popping open and drinking right from the lip of the tall, glass container. He’s sat on the ground of your bedroom, back propped against your bed, the bottle between his outstretched legs as he watches you strip out of the combination of yours and his clothes. A blackberry vape might be in your hand, the fume curling around the curds of cranberries that your blood still consists of, but a pack of cigarettes lies crooked on your bedding.

You told Hobi you needed something stronger after that happened. And he brushed a wisp of your hair away from your face and said he’d willingly have a cigarette with you as he still felt adrenaline coursing through his smooth bloodstream. Bought a pack of gold Davidoff’s for you, the ones you shared with him that you used to smoke until…

You haven’t voiced your panic, though. Not in the market, not in the car, not right now as you’re standing in front of your closet, searching for a lounging outfit to wear, similarly like Hobi did back at his house a few hours ago. Jungkook forbade you from smoking. Hated the sight of it. Hated it even more when you switched to vapes. And as you recollect his anger whenever he saw you with it, you can’t believe you let him do it. Can’t believe you stopped smoking just to please him.

And you can’t believe Hobi bought you a pack. With his own money, by his own will. To please you.

You should be feeling happy right now, but the panic… it stands behind you, the silhouette of Jungkook’s form, waiting for you to take that cigarette between your fingers and place it between your lips, daring you, taunting you, waiting for the right moment to strike, to rebuke, to untether its anger. It’s what keeps you planted on your feet, whisking your eyes up and down along the corner of your closet, where your comfortable clothes are neatly folded.

You’re afraid to turn around. Afraid to see Jungkook there—

“Come here.”

Hobi’s voice. Not Jungkook’s.

“I need to get dressed,” you say, softly, staring down a pink wisp of your sleep shorts.

You hear the sloshing of alcohol in the bottle. Hobi must be taking another sip.

“You don’t, really.”

You laugh through your nose.

“I don’t want to get pregnant here.”

Hobi lets out the same sound, making a smile curl on your mouth. “Come here, pup.”

It’s the gentleness sunk within his intonation that is a force of the same nature that turns your body around. Hobi is staring at you as if he were looking up at an angel—those pearlescent eyes of his bright and swimming, but not prematurely under the influence of the alcohol. They’re swimming with love.

You used to be an angel. Now you’re you.

And Jungkook isn’t standing there; Jungkook is gone.

You walk over to him with ease, the panic dispersing and flying out your wide open window, your rosy curtains guiding it out. You sit on his outstretched thighs and as your bum plops down, you take off his green beanie. Run your fingers through his hair, fluffing them. Cradle his face to your naked bosom as you inhale him, tracing patterns on his scalp.

Hobi begins to purr and you melt, becoming a liquid form of you, making his hands shine in the ever undying stark sunlight as he wraps his arms around your torso, tightly.

You’re not going anywhere, the act says.

This is what deserves to be painted, you muse.

Listening to him emit that sound, your heart notices the absence of Luna and it craves her, awfully missing her. And the more you receive it through your ears and it settles within the chambers of your softened muscle, you realize that you’re holding her in the form of a human.

He’s so much like her. You recollect the way he tilted his head into your touch, join it to the memory of how she did it when you petted her head for the first time. And you test him—withdraw to pat his cheek and he does it. Leans into your touch, lingering there as you cup him.

He’s a God and a kitty. And you love him.

Hobi reaches for the bottle of vodka. Takes a sip as he locks his gaze with yours. Your hand slackens at the sight, dropping to the crook between his neck and his firm shoulder, and you can’t hold it. Like your limb, your eyes descend to the way his mouth is wrapped around the rim of the bottle, to the bottle of his throat as he swallows and doesn’t make a face. Lift back up to catch a glint bouncing off his wet lips and abruptly, you want a taste of that heady sting of your own.

He can read you, and fairly well—because he drinks again, but this time he doesn’t swallow. No, he pushes your head to his in one swift, brazen motion. Parts your lips by tugging your chin down with only his thumb while he cups your cheek and, sitting up so he can once again take advantage of the size difference, he pours the pungent liquid beyond the arc of your mouth. Remains there, a breath away. It seems as though he wants to feel you swallow, wants to inhale that sharp scent of the alcohol; wants to sense in his bones that principle of him giving it to you in a profound, private way.

And you swallow it, fixing your attention on the burn coursing down your throat, softened by his saliva. This—this was your first drink, a safe occurrence, watched over by your Father. The ones you had before in your past life didn’t have a sliver of the magnitude that you feel suffusing your lungs. This is your first life with him.

“That was so hot.”

You agree with him, liquid heat pooling low in your core, and you need that cigarette. And his dick impaling you as you take that deep, heavy drag that you haven’t inhaled in months.

And most peculiarly, there’s no panic, nor fear, as you snatch that pack of cigarettes from your bedding behind his head and look for the little flap that will help you open it. Hobi lifts his hand from your cheek, though, and steals it from you—finding the flap with ease and opening it as if he spent the last decade faithfully smoking.

Your panties are ruined, just like that.

Drenched when he pops the butt of the cigarette between his wet lips, rummaging in his pocket for the pink lighter that he got you along with the pack.

Soaking when he lights it up for you, blows the first smoke into your mouth, pecks you softly, and places the butt between your lips.

But he doesn’t place his hand back on your face—he keeps his thumb and forefinger on the body of the cigarette, the burning tip facing him, holding it for you as you take a drag. The thick smoke billows around his palm, milky blue in the golden light, and as soon as its heaviness caresses your lungs and you exhale it into the air, he returns the cigarette back to its original place. Puffs it one more time before he lets you have it, coughing a little, blowing the fume onto your bare breasts, lips opened halfway in a tiny circle. The warmth tickles and your body naturally curls forward in reaction, your arms pushing your breasts together. Hobi makes a sound that is a godly synthesis of a coo and a moan, uttered from his weakening grin, eyes gliding over your squished breasts.

Eyes that never darken when regarding your nakedness; eyes that remain full of that celestial, sea-kissed light.

Do they have the ocean in heaven? He must know, for he’d been formed by it.

And you want to be stuffed full in it.

Hobi must like the sight he sees because he takes a finger and drives it down the right side of your body. From your clavicle, down to your breast, your stiffened nipple that he stops at, pinching it, heightening the pressure until you squeak, the pool bursting in your core. At that sound, he continues on his path down your stomach and you let him feel the contraction of your muscles there as your body reacts to his touch. He ends his venture at the waistband of your panties and he tugs it towards himself, peeking inside.

“Someone’s wet,” he comments and you cough, embarrassingly, caught off guard, as you take a drag of your cigarette, not expecting him to say that. Hobi smirks and the growing moistness on that fabric becomes uncomfortable. He rubs your back, helping your lungs to quiet down, the waistband snapping back making you jump—and incredibly horny.

He steals the lung burner and you love it, your obsession with it construed by his apparent need to smoke in this heavily sexually-charged situation. You wonder if he’s holding himself back from breeding you right here and there.

He could, if you wanted him to do it here—all things are settled, after all. But you don’t. You don’t want to reach the peak in your bedroom, where Jungkook has been so many times.

You want it to happen at a place, where his footfalls never ventured.

“Someone’s wet from watching their man smoke,” you flirt, looking at him through your lashes, hips instinctually drawing closer to his crotch and beginning their dance. Back and forth, the rhythm of the sea.

“Don’t do that or I’ll fuck you,” he threatens, flicking his eyes to the rising peak of the cigarette ash and he bores them into yours with a challenge. “Be a good pup and get me an ashtray, please.”

Please?

Yes, Daddy.

Ashtray? No.

That would mean going to the kitchen and flipping it upside down in search of it. You stand up to your feet, your wetness flowing down your inner thighs with the movement, and you fetch the empty glass from your bedside table, lonesome and dust-scattered. You can’t really remember the last time you put it there.

Sitting back down, you straddle his thigh as you hold the glass for him to flick the ash there. And once he does, you start to move back to your original position, but he stops you.

“Stay here,” he says, enveloping an arm around your waist. “Ride it. Make a mess for me.”

You don’t hesitate to do so, your body begs you for a release, weakened yet enlivened by his command. But the question of why he doesn’t want to fuck you bothers you and you decide to voice it out, willfully. Unafraid, safe, comfortable.

You roll your hips forward on his thigh, which he flexes for you. The curves of his toned muscles hit the right spot and you throw your head back, using his throat for support, mewling little sounds that make him bite his lip, abandon his cigarette, let it fall into the cup that he forces away from your grip and sets it down. The smoke still billows out, twirling around your form, magnificently.

“Why don’t you wanna fuck me?”

Hobi sucks in a breath, leaning his head back against the mattress, hands following the movement of your hips. Drunk not on the alcohol, but on you.

“Because I’ve been nonstop fucking you and I don’t want your little pussy to be sore,” he says, truthfully, adding vigor to your dance with his words, even if he doesn’t realize it. “Which is why I want you to use me like this when you need me.” He breathes, raggedly, and you’re dazed. “And because—” He fists the front of your panties, squeezing the fabric between your folds, stimulating your clit with the pressure. “The next time I fuck you, we’re making a baby.” You cry out, your pleasure heightened, and, meeting your thrust, he slides the knuckles of his fingers down to your clit, letting you ride them, letting himself feel the swollenness, softness and wetness of your flesh. He moans along with you—the feeling divine. “You said you didn’t want it here. Tell me where.”

You can’t. Your orgasm quickens as do your grinding motions and you can’t see, you can’t speak, you squeeze your eyes shut—

“No, pup.” He stretches the fabric towards himself, essentially moving his hand away, and pushing your stomach back, your hips rolled forward, pussy throbbing and dripping in the air. You pant, gripping his hair at the crown of his head, eyes flung open, yet lidded. Terribly, terribly lidded. Sultry, dreamy, mesmeric. Despite the fact he ripped your orgasm away. “You don’t come unless you tell me where.”

He holds you in place, immobilizing you. You try to grind on him again, but to no avail. You expect him to click his tongue at your brattiness, but he doesn’t.

He does something else entirely.

“Take your time. I know. That was really intense.”

It’s a stark contrast to the restraint he has you in—your slowly sobering brain makes a note of that, only to dip back into the stupefying pool of your arousal.

And you whine, electrified by the pleasure that comes from all directions, that pushes forcibly against your neediness, heightening it.

You can’t take your time. You can’t tell him right now. You need to come.

“I can’t, Hobi.” Your breath shudders. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he rasps and you can see the way your neediness affects him, his chest heaving with almost identical staccatos, as though he was zapped with the delight he gets from it. His pupils are so dilated as his eyes melt into yours, a black pearl, but still enveloped by light. Cheeks flushed, mouth wet. The scent of patchouli, cigarettes and vodka, the remote corner of heaven.

You try to breathe, fluidly, as you take it in and Hobi helps you. Breathes with you, steadies the cadence of your recuperation. Doesn’t stop until he’s assured that your lungs are calm. And as a reward, he lets your panties slap back against your pussy, coaxing a moan out of you.

Doesn’t remove his hand from your hip, though.

A quid pro quo.

All right.

“I don’t want to get pregnant here. Not in Seoul, not in Korea,” you start, your lungs in a perfect rhythm. Hobi’s eyes enlarge as he listens, fingers spreading over your bum, just holding you there, squeezing the flesh every once in a while. The gesture soothes you, blesses you with tenderness that helps you continue with your words. “I want you to take me overseas, where I’ve never been.”

He hums, nodding, thinking for a mere moment, his eyes distracted on your belly button. And when he lifts them, he smiles. “Any particular place in mind?”

The country slips off your tongue, naturally, on its own, and you think that’s the one. Your heart spoke it, so it must be the place. You haven’t given much thought prior to it, just knew you didn’t want to conceive a child on this soil that remembers nothing but your pain and anguish. You held this within the chambers of your heart before you met Hobi—and way before you met Jungkook. And you figure that in the process it acknowledged itself with Hobi, studied his face, learned the ins and outs of his heart in such a short time, it riddled out the place, where the curse is meant to be broken in.

Once and for all.

“Turkey.”

You’ve seen the videos. Seen the dramas. The pictures. It met you and kept meeting you throughout your life, but you never gave much meaning to it. And now you perceive why.

You reckon that’s how life works. And it feels nice—to get to know life, to get to know its mercifulness.

“That’s a beautiful place, pup,” he whispers, taking his hands off of your body and cradling your face, pulling you closer and kissing you, lingering there for two, three, four seconds more. Your heart jumps, delighted to be validated, and you feel like weeping happily.

“You’ve been there before?” you ask, the wetness of your eyes gracing it with a glint that very seldom finds your usually saddened pools.

This is it.

“I’ve had business meetings with Turkish companies that do their job well. Good people, good atmosphere.” Hobi smiles, reminiscing on something private and his cheeks warm.

You wish, intimately, that he would tell you everything.

“Will you tell me about them when we get there?”

Hobi nods, pecking your chin. “Yes, and then I’ll fill you up.”

You grin as he lingers there beneath you, eyes so bright and big, becoming crinkly at the corners once he reciprocates the grin. He kisses the front column of your next, tasting the layer of sweat that has enveloped it during your oh so evident neediness and you dip your head in your pool of arousal all over again—as soon as he withdraws and slaps your thigh, signaling you to hump his thigh.

You can’t wait to get knocked up. Hope time passes quickly, transforms into a substance that lifts you up and carries you all the way to Turkey, mercifully, kindly.

It’s this notion that you focus on as your hips begin to roll forwards and backwards on his thigh, but this time, as Hobi watches you with intention, he pulls your drenched panties to your side, his hand coming over to your bum and doing the same thing there, so the fabric doesn’t get in the way.

You kiss him for it, hungrily, licking over his tongue, and he moans into your mouth, the sound traveling down your body until it roots in your clit, where it spreads and drums a hymn for your feminine titillation.

And the feeling is divine—the sparks of pleasure that shoot up your core while your bare pussy rubs against the fabric of his pants, darkening it ever so quickly with your wetness. The feeling that he enjoys it, even more so when he voices it out.

“This is what it does to me,” he murmurs so terribly close to your puffed lips, grasping your hand and leading it to the place between his outstretched legs that he speaks of. He presses it against his painfully hard imprint and your fingers automatically wrap around it as much as they can, as if they recognize it’s their own toy. “To see you get turned on like this. To watch you use me because of it. I’m crazy for you—”

His phone rings in his pocket and your heart stops—as do your motions.

And you fear, rottenly, that it’s Jungkook who’s calling him. That he somehow found his number and is back at it again, clutching the curse like a sword in his hand. Ready to ruin, ready to devastate.

The feeling paralyzes you enough that it dries up your pool of arousal and you can’t blink, you can’t breathe, you can’t move. Your mouth parts, but no breaths come out.

At the sliver of freedom and joy—

“Jung Hoseok speaking,” Hobi answers the phone, the device slender and way bigger than his monumental hand, gazing into your eyes. Unblinking, too.

He listens to the other side spilling information in and once you catch his mouth flattening, those dimples gouging something unpleasant onto the smooth surface above his top lip and the brightness in his eyes dimming ever so slightly, the cranberries of your blood crumble, uncomfortably, beneath the skin of your forearms.

You pull your hand away from his crotch, slipping out of his grasp. He stops you before you get up on your feet, holding your strayed hand as he listens some more.

It can’t be Jungkook.

Hobi wouldn’t listen to a word he said and that phone would’ve long been flung across the room, if it were him.

You sigh a breath of relief, your body relaxing and slouching. You run a hand through your hair, gripping it at the back of your head to will some feeling into your muscles—as there’s nothing to fear.

It’s over.

It’s fucking over.

No ruination. No devastation. No impending curse about to absorb your life.

Nothing.

“I understand what you’re saying and I appreciate your work and thought, but allow me to remind you that it’s Sunday and I don’t work on Sundays, neither do my employees—”

Oh, the big bad boss.

The person on the other side interrupts him and Hobi scrunches his brows, mouth parting at the disrespect. Then, a smirk crawls over his mouth and he rolls his eyes, directing that smile towards you as the brightness in his eyes blossoms back. Playfully, he rolls his eyes again now that he knows he’s got your attention—and silently, he mimics the words the other person is saying, mocking them.

You laugh, softly, your relief expanding in you and shifting you back into your comfort zone. Hobi’s eyes widen and, using his intertwined hand with yours, he presses his index finger to his lips to signal to you to be quiet.

And he shouldn’t have done that.

He refreshes your pool.

And he seems to be aware of it by the way his countenance grows serious. It does something to you—the way he’s listening, working essentially, while being attentive to your feelings and state of mind. It’s attractive, the splitting of his attention. And you don’t have to rock your hips first—he encourages you to do it by curtly nodding his head at your hips, untwining from your hand and guiding your pelvis to dance again.

Not for him.

For you.

And the pleasure is much bigger this time around.

You can’t stifle your noises.

“That sounds absolutely great,” he says, quickly, in order to camouflage the volume of your delight as you hump his thigh faster, more vigorously, your breasts bouncing and slapping against each other. Hobi watches them with a deep furrow of his brows and his bottom lip caged between his teeth. Tortured, absolutely tortured.

It only urges you on—and you find yourself in a vapor of horniness.

“Yes, Da—”

He clamps your mouth shut with his hand, your moan caught in his palm. That act alone drives you prematurely to the peak of your orgasm and you know, you know, that if your clit rubs against his toned, clothed thigh just once, you’ll be coming all over him.

But Hobi manhandles you, pushes you down, gently, onto the floor.

You’d think he was angry with you, hadn’t he smiled at you—and your vapor thickens, your hormones fucking with your brain. Hovering above you, he grips your throat, merely holds you there without any pressure, and he kisses the tip of your nose.

He fucking kisses the tip of your nose.

Your pool leaks onto the floor.

“Be quiet,” he mouths and does it again, more prominently, to make sure you understand what he’s voicelessly saying to you. “Yes, I have about five employees in that department who would be willing to work on that. Very diligent and dedicated. One of the best people I’ve ever had under me.”

He cringes, realizing the wrong string of words he used in that silence, and you burst out into laughter—one he has to silence by clamping your mouth shut again, looking away to focus on a fixed point somewhere in your bedroom while smiling himself.

And you get his attention right back at you when you lick his palm. You expected him to be repulsed by it, but his eyes enlarge and his mouth falls agape as strange feelings wash over him. Then, he ruts against nothing and plunges two of his fingers, index and middle, into your mouth.

Your slick is warm as it trickles down your flesh and onto the floor; your body hot all over from the situation, the secrecy, his dominance and his fingers alone. His eyes deepen when they slide over your full mouth and you can see, even through your thick vapor, the way he’s swallowing down his growls. He strokes your tongue, barely, softly, plunging them further until he hits the spot that makes you gag. It sobers him quite rapidly, the sound. Swearing—still voicelessly—he starts to pull out his fingers, but you wrap your hands around his wrist, keeping him there as you suck on those long, slender digits, focusing on not making a sound.

His eyes lid, heavily, at your diligence.

“Three months, you said?” He tugs his fingers out, that anger evident, but not towards you—towards the other person. And he lets it out by ripping your panties away from your body in a blink of an eye. “Can we make that two?” He caresses the silky skin of your mound with his knuckles, without venturing downwards, and you shudder, needing him there. “Rub your clit,” he mouths and you gasp, even though you don’t know why. You’re so overwhelmed by the respect he emanates, horny and sensitive that any word he’d throw your way would make you react this way. You feel like a schoolgirl; small, submissive, breedable. And you want to please him, make him proud, do as he says. But you don’t share the same hastiness as him—because before you can get to the end of your thought process, he takes your hand and places it on your pussy.

He must be getting the same thrill out of it.

You rub your clit, obeying him, and watching him watch the work of your fingers as you twirl them on that swollen, little flesh—it’s nothing you ever experienced before. Your pleasure quickens, as hasty as Hobi to get you to your peak, and you have to lift your fingers in order to not come quick, your lungs heaving, your mouth letting out short breaths that make him absolutely feral.

“Oh, pup,” he mouths, the wrinkles on his forehead divulging the depth of his torment and pleasure from the sight. “Good job. So good. Yes.” He nods, encouraging you—and you almost come right then and there, but you lift your fingers just in time. Fists clenched, you throw your head back, frustrated but pleasured just the same. And you can’t take it anymore.

Neither can he.

He runs his hand down the middle of your body, stopping at your thigh, wrapping your leg around his torso.

“If you can’t make that work in two months, then we have nothing to talk about,” he bites, panting, but he hides it well, his voice untouched by it. Firmness and respect coats it, strengthens it, gives a new instrument to the hymn of your clit. “I have things to do and places to be outside of Korea and I can’t afford to be held back by three months. I’m sure I can find business partners who’d be able to make everything work in just one—”

Seething, he leans over, grabbing your vibrator. He turns up the intensity, the sound growing louder and louder and you shriek, soundlessly.

You’re going to explode if he uses that on your tortured clit—

“Apologizes for the noise.” Hobi spits on your clit, the long string of his saliva plopping onto your flesh, making you quiver and moan, quietly. “There’s construction work outside. I guess you’re not the only one working on a Sunday.”

The bitterness, the snide comment—you feel like screaming, in the most delicious, exhilarating way. And you do, when Hobi places the vibrator down on your needy clit.

He moves it, rapidly, from side to side while he’s still talking on the phone, but his words are a blur that you fail to understand, your whole being fixed and concentrated on the adrenaline blended with fireworks of intense pleasure that create an orchestra of passion. His imaginary wings unfurl and beat in the air, opulent and dusky black. His eyes never falter their hypnosis as they bore into yours, coaxing your orgasm out of you, while his mouth keeps silently telling you to be quiet, praising you to motivate you.

And you do explode.

In his face when he explains something you can’t comprehend.

And you come again when he takes a deep breath, stopping short in the middle of his sentence, shocked, zestful, wet and ecstatic. You sprinkle his chin and his neck, ruin, most beautifully, his polo shirt and devastate, even more so, his pants.

And he’s grinning, so awfully pleased.

Lifts the vibrator. Doesn’t turn it off.

“I’m sorry. I’m getting an important call from a family member, who comes first on days such as these. Please, don’t hesitate to contact my secretary and make an appointment with me. We will discuss further on the matter. Have a nice day.”

And he’s smart.

Ending the call, he turns off the vibrator and tosses both things sideways. Props both arms beside each of your shoulders. And the flush that was stifled during the entirety of the work phone call now peeks through the surface, the petals of roses licking across his skin. Your own flush promenades hand in hand with him in this close proximity, your golden aura, gained from your exquisite orgasm, bathing you in holiness.

And you still can’t speak, tongue-tied.

He sweeps away your flyaways matted to your glistening forehead, brushing his knuckles down your face. And when he reaches your jaw, he cups your chin and kisses you, tenderly. Gives you a hundred more. Little, hungry, yet pure kisses.

“What did we just do?” He laughs, softly, in disbelief, shaking his head. You laugh along with him, your still lingering and heightened vapor causing you to nearly levitate underneath him.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, more slowly. Your nectar gets smeared on your cheek from his with each voracious movement of his mouth, his head. And it’s an element that makes this become real for you. That helps you fathom that you just experienced an adventurous event that wasn’t a part of the curse—that was good, through and through.

And it’s yours.

No one else’s.

And he makes it even better when he shares the details of his phone call with you. Lifting you up and carrying you into the shower, he tells you of the way the “motherfucker” tried to keep him from breeding you for three months. Was cocky enough to promise him he won’t find a better business partner to work on a project that Hobi’s been passionate about for weeks—a way to get older children better education in schools in terms of things that aren’t normally taught: surviving skills, basic medical skills, cooking skills and life skills regarding various of things that they will need during and after high school. His organization also offers a form of preschool and elementary babysitting, therapy, library, game activities, singing, dancing, language learning—anything to keep those kids busy and away from their phones. It’s a place of rest, a place of safety and comfort and Hobi works hard to maintain that.

The guy offered his premises and means of educational materials, even though Hobi makes do just fine—but it wouldn’t be available for at least three months. He explained that he needed them for the semester, wanted to elevate his ways, which is why he sent out a word.

He told you all this while washing you clean in the steamy, hot shower. And it wasn’t until a week later that you found out the guy truly wasn’t able to make it happen sooner, but upon talking with him in person, Hobi was so satisfied with him and his work ethic, that he was willing to risk it. What he didn’t tell him over the phone was that he specializes in a group of orphaned children, homeless, and those who live in children’s homes. And Hobi’s mind was blown, his heart moved and softened, enough to shake his hand and start working on this renewed, expanded project. He put the kids that weren’t his first—and you fell in love with him deeper than you ever had before.

And it wasn’t until spring came about and the first heat waves of the sun caressed your skin that he booked the flight, paid for a luxurious hotel resort in Antalya, paid for your mani, pedi, your Shein order and shopping sprees in malls, where he found you the simple dress he was apparently going to marry you in, and held your hand the entire way there. It took half a year to fulfill his longing and his biggest dream—and half a year to break your curse. You spent it visiting him in the office to bring him snacks, eye patches and face masks, distracted him with quick fucks, strip-teases, blow jobs underneath the table while he kept his suit on, smeared makeup and lipstick on his face and collar whenever you were in the mood to make out with him.

It took such a long time, but you didn’t mind at all—because at night, you and him would pretend. Hobi didn’t want you to get on birth control; cared enough for your well-being by not wanting to confuse your body for a few months. Settled for the play of pretending—for condoms and nutting inside, going through the motion that there’s no latex preventing his longing from erupting. And during the day, you got to know him on a more meaningful, profound level.

He loves to dance. Has danced with you in the living room on multiple occasions. Slow dancing, bachata, lambada. He wasn’t shy; enjoyed every minute of it and you watched him shine like the heart-shaped sunlight he is. You found the core of him, like a seed within a cherry, when you had your arms locked behind the nape of his neck and he led your hips into the rhythm of the sensual song.

He loves children because he was loved right as a child himself. Wants to pass that on. Wants the kids to know that love exists, no matter what they’ve done. You broke down when he shared that with you and wished a place, like his organization provides, existed in your forlorn girlhood.

Maybe you wouldn’t have been so broken. So prone to bad decisions, imbecility. So liable to the poisonous kisses of curses, to their tempting touches and their manipulative sounds of sweet nothing.

Hobi had given you a promise ring right after he told you that there was to be a long waiting period for the baby. And when the time came and spring opened their buds of flowers, Hobi proposed to you. A grandiose diamond ring on your finger; plane tickets and more wons that you ever held in your hand, safely tucked in a white envelope. That’s how he announced it to you. And he didn’t get on his knee on the beach, where you glued your heart together.

Not in Seoul, not on the island of Jeju.

He proved his devotion to you and his irrevocable love for you amidst the surrounding mountains in Juwangsan national park by the Yongchu waterfall, five hours away from Seoul. Scraped his leisure pants because for a while you were paralyzed before you burst into tears and started running around, your first reaction of shock dispersing and turning into a holy euphoria you never experienced before. He laughed as did many people who were witness to the engagement, his hands that still held the ring box shaking as the audience clapped and cried along with you. Your white, linen dress billowed in the warm, spring-breathed wind, but you didn’t care much for it—because when you gained feeling in your muscles and your hunger to kiss him overpowered you, you stole and drew all of his patchouli-filled breath.

You made it yours as he became yours, too, eternally.

And when you gave him your yes, the mountains glorified yours and his love, exalted your unified souls, worshiped your hearts that beat for one another. Sang the praises of your unborn child.

You inhaled it, with gratitude and great importance, and it swirled within you even as you continued on your hike. Even as you visited the Daejeonsa Temple, where you spent the most time, dwelling in that thankfulness. You took in the beauty of the greenery, fresh air and mountains differently, more thoroughly and tremendously because you sensed they were there for you. Flaunted their earnest opulence and fervency for your happiness, for they knew you were looking back.

Life gained feeling, too.

And Hobi wouldn’t stop fondling your ring while he held your hand.

It’s what he does now as he presses the hotel room card against the device by the doorknob, a half month later. And it’s not lightness that is intertwined in his shoulders, but immense heaviness. Your flight was delayed by two hours and you waited another two hours for your luggage. Hobi didn't have to say a thing—it was written all over his countenance and figure, the weight of his perturbation. From his solemn look, tense features, lack of speech to his slouched shoulders, slightly shaking hands and deep breaths.

You don’t want to poke the beast, but you do want to pet it—make it feel better. Because despite the misfortunes, you don’t consider them setbacks or ruination. You are here, with him, engaged and about to get filled with his baby. No troubles can take that away from you and they can try as hard as they want.

You are about to carry his berry baby, conceived from the orchard he built in you, in the middle of Antalya, Turkey.

Nothing could be better than this.

Thinking about it, it paints a smile on your face. Hobi plants your suitcases on your king-sized bed, paying very little attention to the swan, made out of towels, sitting prettily in the middle of it, surrounded by rose petals, the ones that live beneath his skin so joyously and most comfortably. Feeling pity for him, because you know why he feels the way he does, you take his arms and slink through them, hugging his torso from behind, nuzzling your face in his oversized shirt-clad back that he wore for the first time in your presence.

Hobi? Oversized clothes? Strangely, it works, even though you’re so used to his suits, his well-fitted classic clothes that accentuate his buff figure.

He sighs, running his hands down your sides like he always does. You kiss his spine, without fear as you chose to wear zero makeup for the flight, but then he clasps your hands in his—right there in the center of his chest—and you swoon, tender and in love, appreciating the gesture, even though he’s done it many times before.

It’ll never get old.

“I can’t breathe in this room,” he murmurs, sighing a little louder this time around, and you furrow your brows, a wisp of worry curling in your gut.

You’re about to let go and open the balcony doors to let some fresh air in, but Hobi acts faster. He swivels halfway, takes one step back with you, and turns on the air conditioning. Waits a little bit, stares at a fixed point on the ceiling—only to discover that it’s not working.

Hobi punches the wall, startling you.

“Hobi?” you call out his name, the wisp fading into a strong wind that moves your organs to and fro.

He pinches his forehead, seething, and your instinct is to put a stop to it. You take his hands, notice they’re trembling, and the wind is knocked out of you.

Trembling hands… What are they portraying? Anger? Anxiety?

You sit him down on the bed, coming to stand in between his legs, and you cradle his face. Even the muscles in it quiver. Feebly, but they’re there. Pity constricts your heart.

“What’s going on?” you ask, searching for his eyes, and when he meets you halfway, there’s unbelief that paints a murky landscape across his darkened pools. The brightness is dimmed. Your heart laments it.

“Everything is going to shit. I wanted this to be perfect for you, but the air conditioning isn’t working. We waited for hours at the airport—”

You kiss his forehead, silencing him, and you linger there, even as you reassure him. “I’m so happy to be here with you that I couldn’t even give two shits about that.”

The unbelief deepens and you figure he expected you to be as disappointed and as cranky as him. He doesn’t understand that the time you’d been graced with, the absence of your ex and the opportunity to be in a place your heart had quietly dreamed of conquers any obstacles that have tried to get in your way.

You can’t be shaken.

Not anymore.

“We’re not at the airport anymore, we’re here. You can make a call to the reception and they will send a guy to fix it. It’s already perfect because I’m about to hear your English, first of all. And second of all, you’re gonna—” Your tone lowers to a whisper, “—breed me. Do unspeakable things to me here. Are we gonna fuck in the ocean? Oh, my god. I want that so bad. We can go to the beach at sunset with very few people around and you can nut in me. We’ll have a sea baby.”

This time, his sigh is dusted with relief and he slides your thighs over his, making you sit on his lap. The brightness in his eyes begins to flicker, shining through the murkiness, making its way back, and you’re happy to see it—relieved just the same. Though, you note something else, something new appearing in those pools.

The moon. Night-caressed pearls. The waves of the turbulent, passionate sea at midnight as they wash out that terrible landscape.

The same moon he carved into your thigh on your first date. The same moon that you hope will be lining your skin once he smothers you in his longing.

“I’m so grateful to have you. I’m so grateful to have you as my wife. No one compares to you,” Hobi says, the moonlit pearls in his eyes wet as he’s overcome with emotion. He rests his head on your bosom, hugging you tight. “I love you, pup.”

You bury your face in his silkily soft hair, reveling in the fresh undercut he got for this baby-making vacation. He purrs, happily, like a kitten, when you gently scrape your long acrylics upon that gritty surface.

“I love you, too.”

It’s time for dinner by the time you both come out of the shower, sharing one humongous towel. You push him down onto the bed and massage his back, helping him unwind on a deeper level—until his body is light and soaring, his eyes drowsy and lidded. Arm shading the lower half of his face, he studies the way you make love to your body by lathering it in shea butter lotion, then dressing it in a skin-tight, pale green, sleeveless dress with a slit in the back, its hem almost reaching your ankles. You put on some Aretha Franklin and open your clear makeup bag, reciprocating the eye contact in the mirror in front of the bed as you squirt foundation on your flushed cheeks.

You didn’t realize he was watching you.

“No panties, no bra?” he asks, his tongue dry as he licks his lips, still naked, glistening in the sundown from your lotion. Your eyes wander to his lower regions and find him hard.

You smile, tapping in your foundation with your beauty blender.

“I made the mistake of accidentally ordering extra small instead of small, so it’s tight on my body,” you explain your lack of underwear, your mouth ends quivering as he just keeps looking at you with bottomless devotion. “So I don’t want any panty lines or straps.”

“I think that’s no mistake,” he says, his hand gripping his shaft for a moment before it relaxes, concealing his weakness for you. “I’m gonna rip it off of you with ease once your belly’s full. And I’m gonna make it fuller.”

You bite your lip, blending your concealer, feral. “Careful, or no dinner for you.”

Hobi chuckles, his body twitching, and you sink your teeth deeper into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Why?”

Cream bronzer—you suck in your cheeks, making him suck in a breath. “If you keep talking, we’re skipping dinner and I’ll force you to make good on that promise.”

He scoffs, the sound full of humor. “There’s no forcing when it comes to you.”

You put on cream blush for nothing as your own natural blush resurfaces under that layer of makeup. “Your game will never not get to me, Hobi.”

He hums in response, a tinge of embarrassment coloring that sound, and you coo, finishing your make-up with a thin eyeliner, mascara, brows and a brown lipstick. You brush out your hair, letting it cascade down your back. Put on some gold hoop earrings. Spray on your perfume. Crawl over Hobi’s lap to show yourself to him.

“What do you think?”

He fails to cup himself now that he’s turned on his back, with how long he is, and you pry his hand away, kissing his palm, marking it with that brown shade.

“Beautiful,” he breathes out and your smile aches. “I’m gonna fight anyone who looks at you tonight.”

You laugh, softly, leaning over to plant that same mark in the middle of his chest—just like he marked you all those months ago. “No need to fight for me. Are you gonna get dressed?”

His shyness comes through, his flush reaching his neck and collarbones, and you salivate.

“I’m hard,” he says, nearly pathetically, and you coo, endeared by him. Grasp him with your left hand, purposefully, and his eyes flick to your ring, moaning. “Oh, pup.”

“What are we gonna do with you? I just put on my lipstick,” you whine, pouting feignedly, and Hobi whimpers, enveloping your hand with his fist, leading you to fuck him in a fast rhythm, the left over lotion on your palm making it slick and easy.

“Just lick my tip and stroke me like that,” he croaks out and you feel your folds soak with your nectar. You were fine with him marinating your makeup, but this is better. “You don’t have to suck it. Just lick it with that tongue of yours, pup.”

You swear, moaning, darting out your tongue and kitten licking the ridge of his head like he asked, twisting your wrist as much as he lets you in the deathly grasp he has over your hand.

“That’s it, baby. You know how to do it. You’re my smart girl. My smart wife,” he praises, throwing his head back as he takes the pleasure you give him, going as far as hollowing out your cheeks on that sensitive part of him, despite the fact he told you that you didn’t have to. He groans, deeply, lifting his shoulders from the bed and gripping your hair, his hand trembling all over again. “Fuck, you make it so hard for me not to fuck your mouth.”

You moan around him and he pulls you away from his cock and smashes his mouth against yours, kissing you so devastatingly ravagedly that you can’t breathe and you grow slack in his hold, sinking onto your knees on the floor.

He holds your face as he lets you go, your foundation and lipstick smeared all over his chin, lips and cupid’s bow. You gasp at the sight, gulping.

“I’m sorry, pup. You’re gonna have to redo your makeup. I couldn’t help it. You’re just so good,” he apologizes and you can see it on his face, how serious he is about it. “You deserve to be kissed like that. Hm, you’re such a good pup for me.”

You mewl, missing his lips already, and you quicken your pace around him. He lets you, matching you, and his sounds rise in volume.

“I’m gonna come so quick for you, just because you look so good like this.”

You hiccup, squeezing him. “Like what?”

He hums, licking his lips, tasting your girlishness, and he grins, lopsidedly. “So pretty on your knees for your husband with your makeup ruined, knowing he did it because you sucked him so well.”

The third person. You die—you die a beautiful death.

“Oh, fuck, Daddy.”

“Yeah, baby. I know. So good. Like always with you.”

And you come back to life.

You moan, giving him your all through your motions, sucking him, licking him, going even as far as taking his balls into your mouth, spreading your noises all over them, divulging how much you love that part of him. And he warns you before he comes. Doesn’t want to ruin your dress. And you watch as he spurts his cum all over his stomach while you milk it out of him—bedazzled, in love, fucked out and absolutely mesmerized.

And you rub his cum into his skin in the way you’ve noticed he likes to do on yours. Dig a grave for all the negative things he had to go through because of you and for you. You didn’t do that all those months ago, focused as you were on forgetting. But now that you’re healed from it and so is he, you dig that grave deep. Throw in his rightful anger, your ex, the painting. Sweep the soil back over it. And never look at it again.

He thanks you for taking care of him. Tells you that it was all because of how beautiful you are. Cleans the little you left behind of his own nectar while you fix your makeup. Dresses himself in black pants and a shirt that makes you laugh so hard that your stomach hurts.

A black and white shirt with a pattern of condoms.

“What?” he asks, but laughs along with you. “We’re saying goodbye to condoms once and for all, pup.”

You blush, terribly. He leaves the top buttons undone, letting all eyes see the way you marked him with your brown lipstick.

And he gets stared down at dinner. Cares very little, as smitten as he is with you—can’t lay his eyes off you as you walk, even as you eat and drink your Turkish tea, as you sway your body to the live, foreign music while your cigarette smoke dances along with you. Can’t stop touching you either—has to have his hand on you under all circumstances. On your forearm, the back of your hand, your knee or your thigh under the table.

Your belly, after all that food.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he says after a long moment of balmy silence. The spring wind, drifting from the palm trees, chilly ever so faintly, brushes your hair away from your face, caressing so coolly your freshly washed body, and you’re obsessed with the feeling. With his reminder that he’s gonna marry you. With him. With the fact you’re here with him.

There’s no other place you’d rather be.

“I know,” you intone, shyly, grinning, so terribly happy that its sparks detonate on your face, your thumb mindlessly playing with your ring. “I feel at home here.”

He seems to be touched by that. But you didn’t understand the gravity of his words.

Not until later.

Two strong cocktails in, the night falls. The musicians gather their instruments to leave, but Hobi, with a mind of his own, pulls you up to your feet to dance with you to the song of that balmy, restful silence. And the ardent dance, filled with twirls and sways, catches the eye of one of the musicians. An elderly man, with ebony hair, mustache and tender wetness in his eyes, picks up his decades-loved violin from its case and starts playing a song unheard by the night. A song made, intimately and privately, from his own gentle, but kindled heart for you and Hobi. The fervid song, tied with the fire of a passion shared between a husband and wife, moves you to tears and once the man sees them, he weeps along with you.

With your face pressed against Hobi’s, he barely leads you in the dance as you still ever so slightly to listen to that expression of love and marriage, paying your full attention to it. And if there ever were any forgotten crumbs of cranberries in your blood, the man’s mastery and Hobi’s touch smooth it out, completely. Order it, wordlessly, to swim out of your tear ducts.

The man ends the song and you and Hobi clap for him, bowing in all respect and sincerity. He sends you a heartfelt kiss and a thumbs up Hobi’s way, pointing at his shirt and you wave him goodbye, laughing.

No need for words.

All was said.

And Hobi senses it, a changed man. Because when you walk up to your hotel room and he sets you down on the bed—he doesn’t rip your dress away from you like he promised he would. No, he takes his time, revealing your skin little by little, kissing and licking every inch that opens for him. He’s that embodied passion and he unravels himself on your body, sucking on your perked nipple as he holds the rim of your dress beneath your breasts. Sighing, humming. Circling the tip of his tongue around that sensitive trigger. Your moans echo around the spaciousness of the room and he answers each and every one of them with his own.

“Do you want it now? On your first night here?” he asks, pools whisked to yours, grazing your nub with his teeth. You cry out, spreading your legs as far as the tightness of your dress lets you while Hobi’s body compresses them down with his weight.

You want it every night, every day until you have to return back to Korea. Want to be so full of his nectar that you’ll still feel it, even at home.

“I want us to try every day,” you say, stroking his hair, shuddering as he rolls his tongue up and down on that nipple of yours, nuzzling his face in your breast as he sucks it. Makes your brain malfunction a little bit. “Do you think they sell pregnancy tests in that little shop? I should’ve brought some from home.”

Hobi grows serious, popping your nub free. His puffy lips search for yours, enveloping them in a deep kiss. And he spreads tiny kisses on your cheek and jaw as he responds. “We can say fuck it and take that test when we get home.”

The same seriousness closes down upon you. “What if we fail? What if there’s something wrong with me that I don’t know about?”

He cradles your face, his thumb fondling your skin, your black eyelashes, sturdier than they usually are due to your mascara. “You’re young, you’re healthy. You have nothing to worry about. I’m older. What if my swimmers are blind, hm?”

Your eyes wet at the thought, but a sweet reminder seizes you—the softness you saw wrapping around him when he told you about the renewal of his work project, the amount of poor children without parents or homes that have won over his heart. And your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue.

“There’s always the children from your work. We can adopt. As many as we want.”

Hobi looks into your eyes, deeply, for a long time. And you don’t catch the drenching of his pools, nor the tender glint, the wetness of the pearls. No, you catch a single rivulet trickling down on each of his cheeks, plopping down onto your chest. The hard sucking in of his breath due to that softness swathing him all over again. The tremble of his lip. The petting of his hand over your hair as he exudes gratefulness.

“I love you, you know that?” he whimpers and you burst, your own tears dripping down the sides of your face as you take him in. The raw, compassionate and humane version of him that only few, selected people are allowed to see. You, his mom, his dad, his sister and… little Luna. And you sob, your whole body warm from the amount of love that boils in you for him. “You’re my good little pup. I love you so much.”

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice broken owing to the intensity of your feelings. Hobi kisses your neck and your hand brushes down his back, scattered with myriads of condoms. Try to feel for his wings. Want them as sensitive as his heart. “Your swimmers aren’t blind. They have 20/20 vision.”

Your little joke causes him to chuckle, adorably, and he makes that sound travel down your throat as soon as he kisses you again. Slowly, carefully—as if engraving the shape and the feel of your lips deeply into his brain, into his system that he will give to you. You want more of him, the intangible things as well as the tangible ones. All of him, all that put his being together; all that helps him get up in the morning and lay his head down at night.

And it invigorates you, the knowledge that you will get just that—once he fills you up with his nectar and his swimmers find you, perfectly. Yours and his berry baby will grow amidst the orchard he will continue to take care of; and you will have him.

Eternally.

Beyond death. Beyond the end of time.

You will have him—and you will have a little him as well.

“I want you,” you whisper onto his lips, perking up your breasts for him by squishing them together and he sees you, sees what you’re doing and he licks your nipple again, both of them at the same time in fact, torturously slowly, humming. “And I want a little you.”

Lifting his head to kiss you, nastily, he groans. The smack of yours and his mouth, the ridding of your dress—still slow, still sensual. He studies your body for a moment, shuddering, full of longing for him and his nectar, ready for him with the way it’s glistening in sweat and arousal. And he sighs, differently this time.

The sound is coated with as much longing as your body is.

You love being looked at by him; love the knowledge that he’s looking at something that’s his. Always been his to transform, make new, clean and heal. Always been his to love.

And he kisses his pathway down your tummy as if he thought about the same thing, his hands following every inch of your skin, fondling the places he kissed, licked and sucked. Not hard enough to create a mark, but lovingly enough to moisten you even more, to make your heart swell—and something else, too.

He stops at your navel. Squishes the lower belly fat, biting it as he coos—and you can feel how much he loves that part of you; always has. Because of that, there’s no insecurity tightening your lungs or worrying your brain. Only balminess, the sound of cicadas, the dance of the palm trees as the wind blows through it, the faraway sea sloshing upon shore and his noises caked with yearning—for you, for the baby.

“Our baby is going to live right here,” he says, as if he was coming to terms with it, now that he’s about to make it happen, and you soften, running your hand through the tufts of his windswept hair. “It’s going to grow and feel our love. Feel how much I love him or her. How much you do.”

You nod, a liquified softness. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

He gazes at you through his lashes and butterflies zap your stomach. “I want a baby that looks like you.”

Your heart, too.

“So, a girl?”

He rubs his face in your tummy, breathing evenly against it. “Even a boy can have your features. Your hair. Your hands.” He takes it, the one closest to him, and drifts his fingers through yours. “I want to hold their hand and know I’m holding yours. And I want to give them the love I have for you.”

A film flashes through your mind. A little boy, sitting on a sofa next to resting Hobi, watching TV while his Daddy absentmindedly plays with his small fingers, kissing them, biting them playfully to make him growl in that adorable way. The same little boy growing into a young man, having been watered by the love Hobi has for you and the new, fatherly love he gained for him. One that does not cease even as he’s older.

A boy, a man loved by his Father—ceaselessly.

Something you never had, but your child will.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Hobi wipes your tears away. Your heart thumps so rapidly against your chest that you believe it could poke through the flesh.

And you fall for him, all over again.

“That’s the most beautiful thing you ever said to me,” you whisper, high on your heightened feelings for him, high on him. “Besides, ‘will you marry me?’”

Hobi smiles. Moves you so your head reclines on the pillows, knocking towel swan off the bed, making you giggle. And he sits on his legs, clutching your waist, thumb rubbing circles on your tummy, squished and overspilling in your position as you wrap your own legs around him.

Comfortable, safe, elated.

“Two days from now, I want you to wear that dress I bought you,” he says, his smile blossoming wider and your lips mimic the same movement for some reason, despite the fact your brows furrow in confusion.

“What dress?”

He slides his hands up your highs. “The white one. The one I told you I was gonna marry you in.”

A soft gasp leaves your lips and a mist of tears thicken in your waterline, understanding what he’s saying. “Are we—?”

“Yes, pup.” A stream, not a rivulet, cascades down his cheeks and you break, you break beautifully and happily. “We’re getting married in two days. I prepared everything. Your parents and mine are flying in. I paid for their plane tickets. A small wedding with the closest. My sister slapped me when I offered to pay for hers—”

An alarm rings loudly in your sternum and you don’t think before you voice it out. Hasty in a way you don’t like, but it’s due to a certain fear that you feel expanding throughout your body.

“What did my Dad say?”

Hobi’s smile doesn’t fade and it spurs a fragment of ease to shoot down your form.

“Your Dad gave me his blessing.”

A brand new shrub begins to grow in your orchard. The final one. A shrub of goji berries, healing, beneficial to your Father complex, the very means that will treat your scar caused from it, rejuvenate the skin that bears his ignorance, lack of love, care and attention.

And you can’t breathe.

Hobi lays the front of his body against yours, propping his chin against your chest, holding the side of your face in his hand, tracing your shock and unbelief with his thumb.

“He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me, but once he heard that I mean well with you and that I make good money at my job—actually, once he heard that I work with children, his whole demeanor changed—”

“He loves children,” you blurt out, your vision unfocusing. “He just doesn’t love me because I grew up. It’s some kind of block in his body, I don’t know.”

Hobi pauses for a moment, thinking about your words, his thumb now tracing your lost eyes—your eyelids, your eyelashes.

Your Father played with you when you were a little girl. Took you on walks around the city. Bought you McDonalds. Taught you how to count money when you were struggling, unsure if you had enough from the paper Wons he gave you. But once the sadness of your girlhood absorbed your life, his presence in it shifted and moved away.

And never returned.

“He does love you, he just doesn’t know how to express it. That’s what I sensed,” he whispers, his hand descending to your neck, and you wonder if he feels the twigs of those goji berries underneath that skin—that quickly they grow. “If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have listened to a word I said. He wouldn’t have asked me if there’s anything I needed from him in terms of the wedding. And he wasn’t mad about the fact that it would be non-traditional and in Turkey, though your mom insisted she’d wear a hanbok anyways.”

You’re so overwhelmed that you can’t speak, the notion that your Father always knew you strayed away from your heritage and preferred the West sneaking into your heart. He accepted it; and he accepted Hobi.

You reach within yourself, pluck a goji berry and feed it to the emptiness that lived within you for too long. And you do it again and again—until there’s no hollowness that eats at your insides.

You’re whole.

“Thank you for telling me,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles down his cheek and Hobi leans into your touch like he always does. “That healed me. I can’t wait to marry you.”

Hobi mirrors your softness and kisses you with it. And it’s now that the dip of the scar in your skin replenishes—through each and every moment of his mouth against yours and through his shifting to the place between your legs once you coyly ask for him there. He eats you as if he were starving, and it has great meaning to you—the fact it’s someone you love that is consuming you and not your emptiness anymore. Your feet slide across the pattern of the condoms on his back and it quickens your orgasm in the middle of his sucking and finger-fucking, all owing to the fact that Hobi made order in your life; healed your Father’s complex and now is preparing you to impregnate you, only to marry you two days later.

You come so hard that you don’t sprinkle him, but drench him whole, your nectar painting him in glimmering light that becomes holy in the moonlight that streaks through the balcony.

He heaves, ferally, kissing your clit over and over again—so hard that he’s essentially sucking it and you cry out in overstimulation.

“Taught you how to squirt, didn’t I?” he growls, hovering above you as the drops of your nectar pitter-patter on your chest and within your shyness due to his words, you’re ready for him.

He did teach you that. Since the fateful day of his work phone call, before and during which you edged yourself so painfully that when he pleasured you with your vibrator, you exploded just the same, you aren’t able to have dry orgasms. He has triggered something within you, using his businessman voice and respect, that rains for him and it has changed your sexuality once and for all.

“You did,” you try because of your shyness, your hands instinctively popping the button of his pants open, and Hobi hums, wiping his face clean and pushing his soaked fingers inside your mouth.

You didn’t expect it and the loud moan that slips out of your throat comes as a surprise to you. Hobi’s length twitches beneath your hands and twitches again when you suck on his fingers, just as loudly.

“I love it when you squirt for me, but pray to God, pup, that you don’t squirt around my dick because I’m not pulling out, you hear me?” he rasps, his voice deep and solemn, causing your walls to clench tightly and your heat to reach a boiling temperature. Your hand, mindlessly, slinks to your pussy to rub your clit and he tips his head, noticing it. “Move your hand.” You do, your heart bouncing in your ribcage. Hobi begins to thumb your clit and you writhe your body against the mattress, following each circle with your hips, the pleasure faint but so good. “Do you think you can hold your orgasms for me once I fuck you, hm?”

You whimper, regarding the idea impossible, knowing how well he does it. Impossible and rapturous. “No.”

He chuckles. Stops his circles. Lets you use his thumb. “I’ll make you, then. I can stop anytime.”

You roll your eyes back, his dominance-tinged words better than the stimulation of your clit. “Can you?” you bite back, playfully, your shyness vanishing.

Hobi bites his lip, intoxicated by your new confidence. Pins your hands above your head, leaning his weight on them. Brushes his lips against yours. “Don’t go bratty on me now. Don’t do it to the baby.”

You choke out a curse and Hobi digs his half-moons into your forearms. The moonlight anoints them, purifying the atmosphere.

“I’ll be good for the baby,” you whisper, curling your hips to feel more of his manhood, eager for it. “And good for you.”

Hobi growls, kissing the skin beneath your jawline just once. “A good what?”

You know what he wants you to say and your eagerness lengthens. “A good pup.”

Shifting so he can hold both of your wrists in his singular fist, he glides the tip of his cock along your feminine flesh—up and down, up and down.

“That’s it. A good Mommy for the baby and a good pup for me.”

He buries himself in your heat and it’s the breaking of the curse upon your life, for the intention is there. The final installment to your healing of your Father’s complex because you’re not a little girl anymore, walking in the withering forest of your saddened girlhood.

You’re a tender woman and you’re being made love to.

There’s respect to the languid and dionysian movements of his love, no matter the hardness he uses. A breath is choked out of you and he inhales it, letting your hands free to cradle your neck, pressing his forehead against yours as he moans. Your mouth is parted and Hobi plays with your tongue without closing down his lips on yours, which causes you to mark your nails down his lats. Goosebumps decorate his skin at the feeling and he speeds up, beckoning out your whiny noises as you take it.

His cock, the healing, the respect, the love.

“I love you,” he murmurs, consuming your noises as soon as he kisses you. Doesn’t stop ramming into you. “I love you, my pup. You’re my life.”

You cry out and he rips the coil of your orgasm by filling you to the hilt and lingering there, stimulating your clit by giving you fast, little strokes that makes his mound rub against it. And the orgasm overtakes you, your whole body limp and delighted as the heavenly pressure courses down every nerve ending, spreading that healing, respect and love, sealing it there.

“God, that was beautiful,” Hobi comments, stunned by the explosion of your pleasure, and he begins to give you long, hard strokes that empty out your brain and try to push out your sudden guilt for coming when he wanted you to hold back your orgasm.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No, pup,” he groans, the muscles around his eyes tightening as he pants. “You’re good. Just keep coming for me. I was only kidding, pup.”

He takes your nipple in his mouth, his back strong and monumental and you sink your nails into it, marking him with the same half-moons, blushing, joyful. Hobi returns to your neck, your jaw and lips and you whine at the principle of him returning.

The feeling of it is so enormous that you come again.

“Yes, pup, that’s it. Come for your Daddy. So pretty, yes. I’m so close. I’m right there with you. Gonna make you a Mommy.”

The words that are true, at last. Not a pretense.

And then he’s fast, fucking you into the bed. Changing his mind at the last minute and lifting your hips into the air, slamming into you so hard that you have to hold onto his forearms, scattering your half-moons there and you take it all, ravenous, yet tender as you are. The squelching noises, his growls melting into soft mewls as you squeeze around him and it’s him who can’t take it.

Who can’t take the distance.

Who places your hips back down and eats your mouth, plunging his tongue inside while keeping up his rhythm. Never once faltering, nor wavering. He kneads your breast, sucks on your lip, bites it. Holds you by your throat, pushing his thumb inside your parted mouth and you have a feeling, amidst the haziness of your mind, that’s your trigger. One of them, at least.

“Suck on it.”

You clamp down on his length, obeying. Your orgasm inches closer, your fourth one of the night.

“Good pup,” he husks, closing his eyes for a split second, slowing down, rolling motions. “Are you ready to become a Mommy for our baby? Daddy’s so close.”

The sound that leaves you is of such a desperate kind that he grunts, delighting in it. Buries himself inside you to the hilt, stopping there, giving you tiny strokes that scramble your brain, plays with the haziness. Your arousal and your yearning is so raging and feverish that the pain of his tip osculating your cervix feels divine. And all you can think about is how it’s going to widen over time for yours and his baby.

“Yes, yes, please. I want it. Give it to me, please, please, please,” you beg, your lungs and your pulse quickening, muscles taut and Hobi moans in a way you’ve never heard him before.

The longing at its peak, sensitive, delicate and frail—yet he still remains as strong and monumental as he is. His Achilles’ heel has been struck and he begins to twitch inside you.

“Oh my God, pup, I’m coming so hard for you.” Long strokes, whimpers. “Are you gonna take it like the good little wife you are?” The ultimate hard thrust—the blooming of his longing, your agreement, and it’s happening. He comes. “Fuck, fuck, yes. It’s all yours. It’s all yours, pup.”

He paints you anew with the warmth of his nectar, fucking it deeply into you. And the title you utter is not one construed out of your lack, but it’s a crowning of his new role.

“Daddy.”

The final breaking of the curse.

The conclusion.

He continues to ram into you, softly, his thumb finding your clit—and it’s over.

Everything.

You step into a new life with him while you’re still connected and he keeps coming for you, his swimmers antsy and desirous to find your egg. And crossing the threshold, you come—devastatingly intensely, your body trembling and his mirroring the same shakes while he gives you the last of his all and a kiss that lasts a lifetime.

A clean slate, a clean heart, a clean body.

A clean life.

An orchard, brimming with fullness and ripeness.

Ready for your berry baby.

He looks at you for a long time, then, grinning so widely that you can sense the entirety of his joyful heart in it. His eyes wet and his smile softens as the gravity of what just happened washes over him. You feel the same process collapsing over you, splendidly, and you think that you and him must have become one.

“We did it,” he whispers, a tear pouring down his cheek and another one following.

You nod, your cheeks stained with the same tears. “We did it.”

And the newness of your life and being feels natural—just as though it has been there the whole time.

On the day of your wedding, bright early in the morning—after Hobi woke you up with his sensual The Weeknd playlist and ate you out so calamitously that you had to give it back to him by riding him into oblivion—you sit down for breakfast and discover something about him that almost makes you call it off.

Hobi put strawberry jam on his butter toast with scrambled eggs.

The Turkish sun envelops him bewitchingly, makes his tanned skin glow in its light as he enjoys, provocatively, every bite of his strange breakfast, focusing all of his attention on it. His eyes never leave it and his mouth smacks so loudly that it as irks you as it makes you laugh.

Your unbelief towards that combination is so strong that it took you some time before you could speak up.

“What the fuck, Hobi?”

His eyes flick in your direction, innocently, cheeks full and squirrel-like, layered in sweat. His hands hold a half of the toast, despite the fact you and him just sat down. Does he really enjoy it that much? He inhaled it.

“What?” he asks, mouth full, and you chuckle.

“Jam and eggs?”

He swallows, making a sound that divulges just how much he loved that bite. “Pup, it’s so good.”

You widen your eyes. “I’m not marrying you today,” you say, but you don’t mean it. You’d marry him even if he forced that abnormal toast down your throat.

He’s not one bit perplexed by your sentence. Stares you down as he runs his tongue over his teeth, mouth closed. “Be quiet.”

Heat comes apart in your body and you blush, squeezing your thighs together under the table.

“How could a combination of eggs and jam be good?” you ask, standing your ground, despite your feelings.

Hobi smiles. “One time I accidentally put sugar instead of salt on my scrambled eggs and it changed my life forever.”

Your eyes might pop out of your sockets. “What?”

He laughs, extends his hand towards your face. The sweetened, yet buttery smell of the toast hits your nostrils and your repulsion towards it dissolves. “Try it.”

You don’t trust it, though. “I’d rather die.”

He tightens his lips. “Be quiet and take a bite.”

Taken aback, your instincts win and you don’t realize your head is leaning towards the toast until your teeth sink into the crunchy tastiness. You take a small bite and thoroughly chew, the mixture of sweetness and a little bit of saltiness, wrapped around the crispiness of the toast and the slight mushiness of the eggs creating something metaphysical in your mouth.

Hobi watches you with a proud, lopsided grin. Knows you like it before you say it.

“What the fuck?”

He bursts into laughter and lets you have it, places it on your plate before devouring his second one, your liking for it elevating his.

And you devour it just the same.

“Life changing, isn’t it?” he intones, smacking his mouth in all the pleasure of the world. “Expect this kind of breakfast every morning when we get home. After I eat out your little pussy.”

You choke on it and hide your feverish face in your hands, your stomach doing somersaults. “Oh my God, Hobi.”

He laughs again, tenderly, and the sound travels all the way to Cappadocia, where he marries you at sundown.

On the rooftop of a cave hotel, overlooking an immeasurable amount of kaleidoscopic hot air balloons that magnetically travel to the heat of the orange sun, the mountains and volcanic peaks darkened by its overpowering magnificence. It encourages the sleepy walk of camels and tightens the hearts of the witnesses below and the hearts of your parents, parents in law and Hobi’s sister.

The simple dress Hobi bought you ripples in the compassionate late afternoon wind. Silky, pearlescent like his eyes in a certain light, caressing your tanned skin. So very akin to the one you wore on your first date with him, but longer, sleek, homeric in its significance.

And he matches you, all white, in his tuxedo, a stark contrast against his bronze skin and black hair, a wispy strand softly being blown sideways from his forehead by the wind. He holds his tears back in the same way he holds your hand—with all his might. And you do the same.

You share your vows.

He shares his, intertwined with the first poem you recited for him.

“I’ll carry your heart with me ‘til my last day on this Earth and I will fear no fate because you are my fate.”

Through your tears, you can see the way he’s stifling his habit of saying your pet name. And when he catches your quivering smile, he breaks into more tears.

And when you proclaim that you do take him as your husband and when he proclaims that he takes you as his wife, your tears conjoin as do your souls in a kiss that makes the mountains quake. The heat of the Turkish sun perpetuates the act of love.

The audience cheers.

Your Father weeps.

And you believe no sadness, no ruination will ever come close to you again.

You and Hobi celebrate. Dance throughout the night to foreign, passionate music that your heart seems to know. Fly in a hot air balloon, where he gets drunk and kisses you until your lips get numb.

Almost throws up all the dark liquor he drank once he sees how high from the ground he is.

And you can’t stop laughing.

Not as he takes you to the Valley of Love the next day to look at penis-shaped rock formations that nature apparently formed out of the blue.

Not as you give birth nine months later and he makes his sound effects as you push out his child.

A baby boy that has your hair, your hands, your mouth and your chin—and a whole lot of Hobi’s pearlescent eyes and slender nose. A delectable, heavenly concoction.

And certainly not as you take the five-year old boy to the Yongchu waterfall, where his Father proposed to you, and he starts sputtering out uncontrollable giggles when Hobi tells him that you ran around when he popped the question and precisely, with utmost detail, shows him how.

On your way back, when little Hyeonwol’s legs hurt and drowsiness weighs him down, he surveys the mountain peak, transfixed by it. You and Hobi notice it at the same time and share a look that could never be described through any poetry, through any beauty of words, not even the ordinary kind.

And it’s automatic, a silent, collective and simultaneous decision to break Hyeonwol’s spell by kissing each of his cheek.

The dream came true.

All dreams have, even those undreamed.

And you believe that even as you grow old with Hobi, you’ll never stop laughing.

You’ll never stop eating strawberry jam toasts with scrambled eggs with him.

With Hyeonwol, too.

And you'll never stop feeding the berry boy the fruits from the orchard that Hobi continues to take care of within you.

HYEONWOL — HYE-ON-WOL

賢월

Meaning: worthy moon

This name is given to a worthy person who is as precious as the moon.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

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solarwonux · 9 months ago

Text

Business Proposal || knj (9/?)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love

Warnings: slow burn, angst, fluff, flirting, semi-edited, smut, fingering, eating out, unprotected sex.

Rating: mature, 18+

w.c: 8.0

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”

A/n: lol, hello, I'm sorry for being so MIA lately. I kinda have had half of this written since November but my mom came to visit me in Korea and I forgot about it haha. If you are still here thank you for sticking around! Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts!

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10 Years Ago

Things were finally looking up.

“If you just remember everything we have gone over you'll be fine.” He simply says like it's no big deal, waving you off.

You on the other hand are filled with the gnawing pain of your nerves. As you look down at your notebook filled with an equal mixture of correct and incorrect answers.

Maybe things weren't really looking up.

“I think we should do a few more.” You rush out, flipping to a new page. In that exact moment, the buzzer in Namjoon's hand goes off, and he stands up.

He pushes in his chair and walks to stand beside you, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Over studying is not the answer.” He says gently, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before walking away to pick up your drinks.

Your protest dying as you burn daggers into his back. You aren't sure if it's a good thing that he has so much faith in you. When you don't have an ounce in yourself. Especially when in two days you'll hopefully end your misery with the dreaded math final.

It's been two whole months since you've started your weekly tutoring sessions with Namjoon. You aren't completely lost in class anymore. If you are, you just come to the broad man and drown him in all kinds of questions. With this tactic you've even managed to get an eighty-five present in your last math test.

The only thing left for you to pass is the stupid final.

You have been seeing Namjoon a lot more this week. Scheduling, and practically begging him to squeeze you into his tight schedule since Monday. A request to brush up on equations and gain some clarity on things you might have forgotten. To say the least, your test anxiety has reached a whole new level. You visibly look exhausted, your skin is oilier than usual, sporting a few painful pimples on your chin, and your hair looks so greasy despite just washing it in the morning. You should feel slightly ashamed for even leaving your house looking like a hot mess, but your thoughts are suffocating. Staying in would make the panic in the pit of your stomach worse.

Especially when you and your tutor have recently discovered your inability to do word problems. The main reason why you keep calling Namjoon at three in the morning. Even though he thinks you're just being paranoid, especially with the silent sigh of defeat you hear through your phone speaker. He tries his best to reassure you that you're going to be fine at the end of the day.

“There will probably be three, five at most. He had said last night when you called.

Thankfully he had stayed up revising his final paper, instead of being three dimensions deep in dream land like on Sunday when you called. Still, even though he had muttered out a tiny complaint, he stayed on the line with you. Until you were calm enough to fall asleep again.

In just three months your acquaintance has blossomed into a full on friendship. Along with your sneaking suspicion that both Taehyung and Jimin like him better. It was obvious last Friday night when Jimin had a small end of the semester get together at his apartment. Namjoon got so drunk he performed the entirety of Grease Lightning on karaoke. Including the dance break with special guest and step brother Jeon Jungkook.

Later on in the night the older of the four cried about the final scene in the Titanic. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, but heartwarming to be able to see a different side of the Philosophy student.

“Look who decided to join us.” You jump, placing your pen down in your notebook, closing it to hold your page. You turn around, feeling a wide smile come onto your face when you lock eyes with the other source of your happiness these last few months.

“Hobi,” you exclaim, holding your arms out to him. He chuckles, and leans down giving you one of those awkward hugs one gives when the other person is sitting down. It only lasts a few seconds and then he is leaning his head back to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek, making you cringe.

“Ew,” you pout, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. He chuckles, pecking your lips lightly and then taking the seat next to you.

“Joon says you need a break from being a math wizard.” He chuckles, dragging your notebook to him. He places his arms over it keeping it hostage.

You whine crossing your arms in front of you, pouting like a child. “But what if I don't pass. I don't want to have to take the class a third time.”

Namjoon shakes his head, sets your chamomile tea in front of you, and sits down. “I already told you, you won't. I did the math last night. Even if you get a sixty five percent, you'll still be able to pass the class with a B.” He states firmly and takes a sip from his coffee.

You huff, sinking further into the chair. “I don't want a B, I want an A.”

Hoseok snakes an arm over your shoulders and brings you close to his side.” “Then you will pass the class with an A honey cakes.” He kisses your temple before resting his cheek on top of your head. You take a deep breath, nodding and snuggling closer to him.

“So are you two dating now?” Namjoon leans back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of him.

Hoseok waves an arm, brushing off the question that has been surrounding the two of you these past three weeks. “You know it's not like that.” He answers before you can. He pulls his arm away and sets them both on top of your notebook. He sends you a knowing wink.

“Yeah you out of all people should know it's not like that.” You back up Hoseok, sticking your tongue out at the other. “How's Rina by the way?” You challenge making the man next to you burst out in a fit of giggles.

You see, most of the things Jungkook told you about Namjoon prior to your first meeting have all been lies. Or just not the whole truth.

Namjoon was a broody person. He did put his studies as one of his priorities in life. And he didn't want a relationship.

Yet in the last few months you have gotten to know the career driven man. You've also managed to peel back some of his layers.

He did have his moments of indignation, but he could also be very playful and funny. This side mostly comes out when Hoseok is around or when he wants you to get your mind off the things that have been stressing you out. He does have a strong work ethic, but he also knows when to take a break.

There have even moments in your tutoring slash now study sessions when he forces you to take walks. He says it helps clear your head, but you also know it's his way to get his ideas to flow again whenever he feels stuck.

During these walks you've managed to find out more things about him. He loves museums because he's shit at art, and knowing that there are people out there who aren't makes him appreciate the art a lot more. At least once every two months he visits the tree he and his father planted his mother’s ashes at to update her on his life. He cares so much for Jungkook and his mother even if he doesn't show it all the time. And despite not wanting a relationship he has been head over heels for the girl he's been casually hooking up with for the last two years.

Though he won't come out and say it himself. You have witnessed the way his face settles down into something calmer. And his eyes light up whenever his phone rings and her name pops up on the screen.

He once spent thirty minutes talking about a joke she had told him one night. Spoiler alert, it wasn't a good one, but it was adorable watching him try to get it out in-between chuckles.

You also know he shares the same negative sentiment Jungkook has about your current relationship with his best friend. But just like he claims that his relationship with Rina is complicated. So, is yours with the ray of sunshine you get to now call friend.

“She's fine.” He shrugs, clearing his throat and looking out the window. You share a look with Hoseok before letting out a fit of shared giggles.

If someone had once told you that your strict math tutor slash friend would turn into a shy mess with just the simple mention of a name. You would've thought they were fucking with you. Even if it still surprises you a little bit.

“You should just ask her to be your girlfriend.” Hoseok chimes in.

Namjoon throws his head back groaning. “It wouldn't work out if I do, plus that would require for me to act like a boyfriend and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.” He speaks with his eyes trained on the high ceiling of the cafe.

You lean forward placing your elbows on top of the table and wrapping your arms around the hot mug. “You already do Namjoon. A switch of labels is not going to change anything. And don't you think she deserves some kind of confirmation and respect when it comes to your relationship?” You finish tilting your head to the side.

“I do respect her though, which is why I don't want to ask her, like you just said a label won't change anything.”

You let out a sigh, “I didn't say that you didn't respect her. I just think that from a girl's perspective she might be feeling a little bit confused with your words and actions. You say the two of you aren't anything serious but then you act like you can't live without her. If I was in her shoes I would feel very frustrated. So, maybe you don't have to make this big grand gesture or ask her to officially be your girlfriend but just clarify things between the two of you. If you aren't serious about her then so be it but if you are then tell her that.” You finish and take your first sip from your tea.

“I agree with honey cakes, just be a little more straight forward that's all.” Hoseok shrugs before standing up.

Namjoon rolls his eyes, and looks between the two of you. “And what about you?” He counteracts childishly. You knew it was coming. In his eyes the two of you giving him advice when you're in a similar situation is a bit hypocritical. Plus you and Hoseok are on the same page so it's di–

“That's different.” Hoseok speaks before you. “And this is about your love life not ours.” He states stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Whatever.” Namjoon brushes off. You sigh, aware that if you choose to continue the conversation it will end in the three of you having a petty argument. You look at Hoseok as he leans down, placing a delicate kiss on your cheek, making the man witnessing the affectionate gesture scoff in annoyance.

If he wants to say something he doesn't voice it instead he opens his leather bound notebook to a new page.

Hoseok ignores him and stands up straight. “Are we still on tonight?”

You nod. “I can't stay for long though I want to catch up on sleep.”

“Fine then just one movie it is.” He winks before turning on his heels. Leaving you behind with the grumpy man. He looks up from his journal, opening his mouth, but you raise a hand to stop him. “It's different Namjoon.”

Namjon clicks his tongue in annoyance and shrugs. “Whatever, let's just do one more world problem before calling it a day.”

“Fine,” you huff, sliding your notebook in front of you and opening it to a clean page.

Just one more day and you'll be free from this torture.

Hoseok's apartment is everything you expect from the maximest man. Just upon walking in you are hit with waves of bright colors. By the doorway there are different KAWS figurines that you can only imagine cost a fortune. Yet they greet you with their x'd out eyes as you remove your shoes.

Then you have to pass by the Supreme beaded curtain to finally enter the living room. A bright red leather couch is settled in the middle. With wine colored pillows and a black throw blanket that you've adopted since the first night you spent in Hoseok's arms.

Abstract art lines the walls behind the television. There are more figurines lining the shelves in between books, records, and framed pictures of his friends and families. Along with a few miscellaneous items that he's told you he's obtained over the years.

His TV is huge. Takes up almost the whole wall, but your favorite to watch movies since he installed a surround system upon moving in years ago.

You still remember the first night he invited you over. It was after spending two whole weeks texting non stop. He simply asked if you wanted to watch a movie with him and you thought why not.

One night led to another and now another. It always starts the same. The two of you spend days teasing one another through text. Lewd texts along with pictures. You come over for a movie and then you end up underneath him.

When it's over, he lets you use his shower while he orders takeout from the vegan restaurant a block down the road. And the two of you resume watching the movie as if neither of you were panting each other's names in pleasure.

A simple arrangement with absolutely no strings attached.

It was what you were expecting when you came over tonight. Not that you don't mind the nights in which you do come over and nothing happens other than the deep hearted talks over a slow record playing in the background. But that wasn't happening either, because ever since you arrived at his doorstep, the overzealous man has been quiet. Biting the inside of his cheek and moving around you far enough to raise suspicion.

It has your mind traveling back to the conversation that occurred in the afternoon. Was Hoseok having second thoughts? Or was there more to his actions than what you were picking up?

“Hobi,” you whisper the minute he enters his living room with a bowl of popcorn stepping over your legs that were resting on his coffee table. He silently settles down next to you, on the other side of the couch with a gap wide enough to fit a person in between.

Now you're more than positive that something is wrong.

You groan, “I think I'll just go home then.” You mumble, pushing the throw blanket of your shoulders.

This is enough to catch his attention. His eyes are wide behind his dark rimmed glasses and he sits up. “What why?” He tilts his head in confusion.

A dry chuckle escapes your lips. “You obviously don't want me around, so I'll just go. I need to go to sleep early anyway.” You shrug, slipping your feet in his fuzzy slippers and swiftly start making your way to grab your stuff in his room.

“No I–wait.” Finally, he speaks up, earning an eye roll from you that he can't see as your back is still turned.

With haltered steps you spin on your heel to face him again, “What? You've been acting strange since I got here. So, if you don't want me around I will just go home.”

At lightning speed he sets the bowl of popcorn on his coffee table, and stands up. He makes hasty steps towards you and when he is finally standing in front of you, he sets both of his hands on top of your shoulders.

“Don't leave…I'm sorry.” Hoseok's eyes cast down past your face. They settle upon the graphic on your old washed out t-shirt. He takes a deep breath and looks up again. His face twists into something you can't decipher. It's a look you've never seen him wear, and it settles hard into your chest.

He looks troubled, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart to five different focal points. You know he's arguing with himself. When he finally looks at you in your eyes again. You can't help but shrink a little bit.

His features have hardened, and you want to reach out to smooth over the little worry lines in the middle of his forehead. Guilt washes over you.

For what?

You don't know but you hope more than anything that you'll soon find out.

“Can we talk?” He speaks up, letting his arms fall down, his knuckles brushing against your skin.

For a second you think he's going to pull away. Retrieve into his body, but when he grabs your hands and laces his fingers with yours. The guilt in the pit of your stomach dissipates and you're left with confusion.

When you don't answer his question, he repeats himself. This time differently, “I just think we need to talk, I've been thinking since this afternoon. I want to check up on you, and I guess us.” He clarifies, and now you're filled with a different kind of emotion. As much as you're relieved that you didn't do anything wrong per se. You are slightly annoyed that he couldn't just tell you that when you first arrived. Instead of ignoring you until you reached your breaking point.

Frustrated, you say slowly, “Then just say that, instead of ignoring me.”

Hoseok closes his eyes and sighs, nodding his head before speaking, “you're right I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my mind and I am not sure how to bring any of what I'm thinking about up.”

“Hobi, just say it. We agreed on clear communication when we realized that this was going to be more than just a one night stand.” You sigh, beginning to walk in the direction of his couch, stringing him along. “Whatever is on your mind, just say it.” You push him onto his couch and take the seat next to him, your body fully facing his, and you fold your legs beneath you.

He nods, running a hand down his face. “I don't think this is working anymore.” He whispers, eyes trained on his ceiling.

Okay you were definitely not expecting that, but instead of voicing your surprise, you squeeze his hand. Encouraging him to continue.

He does, “I think I'm slowly falling for you, well I don't know I'm confused about my feelings.” He whispers the end and falls quiet.

As much as you want to run away and hide at his confession. He looks troubled and you wouldn't be a good friend if you just left him to wallow in his thoughts. No matter the pressure that has settled in your chest. Or the fact that your heart thinks you're running a marathon, making your ears feel like they're about to fall off too.

With every passing moment you're finding that it's getting harder to breathe. You aren't dumb, the atmosphere has also changed, but it isn't because of his confession. It's because you are also a bit confused about your feelings.

You clear your throat, “W-What are you confused about?”

He stops his staring game with the ceiling, shifting his whole body to finally face you. “Do you know why both Kook and Joon are so against us?”

The question throws you off guard but you suppose it has to do with what he's going through. You do have an idea as to why your friends are raising a brow at your relationship. Jungkook’s warning the first day you met the barista is enough for you to get a rough idea of what they mean. But you want to hear it from him.

Still you don't know if you can trust your voice so you shake your head.

He continues, “I've never been in a relationship because I don't trust people to love me the way I know I can love them. So, I just sleep around, and when I get bored I break it off.”

“I know. They warned me about you when you immediately showed interest. And trust me I knew what I signed up for when we agreed to keep seeing each other. I don't expect anything more than what we are doing.” You tilt your head to the side.

“I know that's why I'm confused. At first that's all I expected and wanted. But then I don't know I feel so full and empty when I'm with you. I don't want you to leave when the night is over. You're the last thing I think about and the first thing I want to see. I've never felt this sure and comfortable with anyone ever, and I don't know what to do because we both know this isn't forever, your forever is with someone else, and so is mine. But for now I just want to be with you and know what it's like to fall in love and with you.” He takes a deep breath. “Even if it's just for a little bit. You know that next year I'll be leaving for that design school, and I'm sorry but nothing and no one is going to stop me. I've waited too long for this opportunity. I know I'm being selfish to ask you this, but can you please find it in your heart to let me be yours until then?”

Hoseok finishes. And you're left to your own devices. To deal with your emotions as they spill out of you in hot tears. You've never had someone confess to you so passionately before. Actually nobody has ever bothered. And even though it's semi depressing you can't help but feel on cloud nine with all his words wrapping around you in the warmth that he radiates.

Without thinking you kneel, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Okay let's do it.” You beam and he matches your smile. He leans in to kiss you but you place your hand over his mouth to stop him.

Confusion plagues him like a bitter sting. You laugh, “But only if you agree that when everything is over there's no drama between us, and if I ever get married you have to design my wedding dress.” You remove your hand, and cradle his cheek, rub your thumb over his eyebrow.

He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “You will get married.”

“Nah, but it's okay. I've accepted my faith.” You shrug, resting your forehead against his. His hands come up your cheek, squishing them slightly.

“You will honey cakes, that's why I'm already planning your dress design in my head.” He wipes your forgotten tears, and tilts your head to the side.

You feel your breathing get faster, as his heart shaped lips rest centimeters apart. “How are you so sure?” You whisper, swallowing thickly at the end.

He smirks, with a glint in his eye. Like he knows something you don't, “because I know someone who is also falling for you but they’re to dumb to notice “

“Who?”

“Secret,” he says before finally crashing his lips onto yours.

Hoseok’s room is equally as loud as his living room. It’s a little more diluted with simple decorations and a huge abstract painting on the wall in front of his bed. His bed takes up most of his space, adoring a black duvet with black sheets. He has three pillows and two of those you’ve taken ownership of. His brown dresser holds little trinkets of things he buys or finds in the pockets of his pants. It’s also home to a series of designer colognes. Your favorite one was definitely Terre d'Hermes. Somehow the smell always fills with comfort.

Your favorite part of his room–other than his bed–was his desk. They say you can tell a lot about a person by just looking at their work space.

He’s a messy artist. His sketches are always thrown around, or pinned on the corkboard hanging over his desk. He has two bookshelves filled with sketchbooks and magazines. Sometimes if you’re lucky he will leave his sketchbooks open, awarding you with a small glance of his work. He has different notebooks for different magazine cutouts. Each one labeled something like, ‘street’ or ‘formal’ or ‘one-day.’ The latter always peaks your interest but you’ve never thought to ask. He has a thousand different sketching materials, and so many colorful markers. You just know that he was that kid in class with the sixty-four crayola back.

He's passionate about his craft. A passion that shines through everything that he does. Especially when he’s sharing that passion with you. Now, as he lays you down onto his soft mattress. He kisses his way down your neck, slowly pushing your shirt up to reveal your stomach and the few stretch marks that appeared one day in your early adolescent years.

For years it was hard to be intimate with someone in fear that they would disgust your partner. But the one thing you learned while growing up was that most men didn’t give a shit unless they were getting it.

Yet Hoseok, your boyfriend, now.

He cares.

In a good way. The first time he saw you naked he almost came in his jeans. Your curves were all in the right places. You have enough skin to grip onto, and he loves all the marks and imperfections your body has.

He couldn’t understand why you were so beautiful in the soft glow of his bedroom lights? Why he didn’t have the words to describe how his heart was literally beating against his ribcage? Why for the first time in his casual dating experience he feared he wouldn't be able to give you the pleasure you deserved?

So, that first night together, he took his time. Trying to get his thoughts under control. He painted your body with featherlight kisses. Determined to leave his trace imprinted in your body for however long you two would engage with each other.

Everytime you came over. He did just that. He took his time, choreographing a dance with your body. It was a no-brainer that he had fallen for you. Something he knew shouldn’t have happened. He had plans for himself. He had a future mapped out since he was teenage. Though, he had the sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t stop him from achieving his goals. That you would support him through everything. He should’ve stopped his feelings for you from growing.

He kept them quiet until his portfolio got accepted. Until he saw the brief glances Namjoon gave you when he thought you weren’t looking. Perhaps it was the jealousy that made him confess. Or that his time with you was now limited. Whatever the reason was that led him to his confession, he only hoped that you felt the same.

You giggle, the beautiful melodic sound grounds him as he wraps a calloused hand around your right breast, circling his thumb around the pebble.

You're his girlfriend now.

He, your boyfriend and he will bring down the moon for you tonight if you asked him too.

“What’s so funny?” His curious stare meets your amused one.

You had failed to keep your giggles at bay while he made out with you on his couch. He let a few of his own out when he had had enough of kissing and grinding in his living room, and guided you into his room.

He loved the sound, and he loved that it was only because after months of dancing this tango you were still shy underneath him.

“Nothing, it’s just that Mickey is staring at us.” You whisper gasping when he grinds his lower half against yours. Hoseok playfully rolls his eyes, reaching and turning around the newly added picture of his family dog on his bedside table. No more prying dog or human eyes around to interrupt the two of you.

His attention returns to you. Gaze burning with lust as he leans down, pecking your lips lightly. “Can you stay over?” He says, kneading your breast again. The teasing touches were driving you insane. But this is how you preferred it. Slow and intense, tangling your body with his, until the two of you became one.

“I’ll make an exception if you promise to drive me to my class tomorrow with a free coffee.” You smile, pushing your chest into his hand.

He shook his head, reaching down to your lips. “Hustler.” He mumbles, capturing your mouth in a slow sensual kiss. “You got yourself a deal baby girl.”

Your body shudders at the nickname. He only used it when it was just the two of you. He knew the effect it had on you. “Can I take your shirt off now?” He smirks.

You let out a pleasurable sigh, nodding your head, before verbalizing a soft, “yes.”

He pulls away, sitting back on his heels, peeling his shirt off before helping you with yours. He discards the two of them somewhere behind him. He pulls you towards him again, resting his forehead against yours. A bright smile adorning his perfect face.

It makes your stomach crumble, knowing that from this moment on.

Hoseok would always be the one who got away.

Your big “what if.”

Your biggest treasure. Your safe place. Your blueprint for a future with someone else. The love story that was made to end. But one that burned so bright that would have you telling your future daughter to never be afraid of love.

“Can we go slow today?” You run your hands down his torso, playing with the belt buckle of his expensive belt.

“I’ll go at whatever pace you want me to go, baby girl.” He reassures, his fingers play with the bra strap that had fallen down your shoulder.

You tilt your head, looking at him with soft eyes. And he swears he feels himself melt.

The next few minutes were a mess of soft kisses and clothes being discarded. Each article of clothing, landing with a soft ‘thud’ against his bedroom floor. You’re on cloud nine, his lips kiss down your neck, your collarbone. His hands part your thighs, baring your cunt to him. He sits back, mouth watering at how wet you are. He couldn’t wait for a taste.

He could never wait. And he never did.

He kisses your mound before wrapping his lips around your clit. He savors the sigh that escapes your mouth. He smirks when he immediately feels you grip his hair, pushing him further. Just like he couldn’t resist, you also couldn’t.

He sucked, distracting you from his finger circling around your entrance making you gasp in surprise when you feel him insert one. Slowly thrusting it as he licked you like a man who has been starved for weeks.

“Hobi,” You sigh, pushing his head further. He fingers you faster until he feels you clench around him, and he stops, making you whine.

“Please,” you plead. He chuckles against you, inserting another finger. This time he doesn’t give you time to adjust. You feel him thrust into you with no hesitation. His mouth sucking on your clit, swirling his tongue around it playing with the nub.

You were withering, moaning his name, and anything your mind could conjure up in this moment.

Overwhelmed with blissful pleasure, you grip his bed sheets, bucking your hips into his face. He groans, knowing you were on edge from how tight your grip on his head was now. And he did the one thing he knew would drive you insane. He slowed down, until he came to a complete stop.

“Hoseok,” you groan, slamming your hand onto his comforter. He chuckles, lifting his head. Your body was flushed, your lips swollen, your hair splayed out around you. He loves bringing you to this moment.

“You said you wanted slow.” He grins, taking his fingers out of your pussy. Loving the way it clenched over nothing now. Almost as if it was begging to be played with again.

You roll your eyes, pouting. “Not this slow. I want to come.” You say, sitting up on your elbows.

“Oh baby you will.” He winks, licking his fingers clean. He leans over, pecking your lips quickly. “You will come as many times as you want. But I want the first one to be around my cock tonight.”

You gasp at his words. You knew his mouth was lethal but sometimes it still surprises you. The lust lacing with his soft timbre made you weak in the knees.

“Fuck,” you whisper, grabbing his face and kissing him hard.

The word ‘slow’ is forgotten from either of your vocabularies, while the two of you kiss hungrily. Sucking on tongues, teeth clashing, hands touching and clutching onto anything and everything.

Hoseok lays you down on your side, climbing in behind you. His teeth nips at your bottom lip and he wrapped your leg around his hips. He kisses down your neck, while you help guide his cock to your entrance. He locks his eyes with yours as he slowly pushes himself in. His arms wrap around your torso, and he pushes you closer to his chest.

Both of your heartbeats are in sync. Racing against the clock, basking in pleasure that you never want it to end.

“Move please.” You say, lifting your face to kiss him.

He begins to move his hips, making you gasp into each other's mouths. It’s a sloppy pace from the start but you don't care. You want more, so you met his thrusts halfway. One of his hands palms at your breast. He alternates between swallowing your moans and leaving his mark on anything he can get his lips on.

“B-Baby.” He moans, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m close, are you?” He thrusts, letting out a low moan when he feels you clench around him.

He didn’t give you a minute to answer, before he was lifting your leg higher around his waist, allowing himself to reach the deepest part of you. “Touch yourself baby.”

You moan his name, letting go of his hand, your finger meeting your clit, rubbing it in circles. Trying to keep up with his unrelenting pace. And soon you feel him still behind you, eyes shutting in pleasure as he spills himself inside of you. His orgasm triggers the coil in the pit of your stomach as you feel your release wash over you in a tidal wave, making you push his cock and cum out of you. His fingers frantically come down to meet yours as he helps you ride out your wave. He whispers praises against your skin while you come down.

Hoseok kisses your lips slowly, chuckling before whispering words that you will forever hold near and dear to your heart.

“I love you.” He pushes your hair away from your face. “I love you so much to know that one day I’ll have to let you go.”

You giggle, turning in his arms, nuzzling your head into his neck. “I love you.”

You feel him laugh, twinkling his fingers down your spine, “Let’s get matching tattoos.”

You look up at him, raising a brow before shaking your head. “You just made me squirt, told me you loved me, and now you want to get matching tattoos?”

“What better way to commemorate the best ego boost.” He shrugs.

“You’re insane.” You untangle yourself from his embrace. You stand up, putting on his shirt.

“I didn’t hear a no.” He says smugly, putting his arms underneath his head.

“Because you’re an insane idiot who makes me agree to things like these.” You smile, before walking out of his room.

“Great, I’ll make an appointment.” He shouts after you, “I love you.” He adds after a moment.

You enter his kitchen, and turn on the lights. You can feel your smile take up your entire face. For a moment you realize that for the first time in a long time you felt happy.

So yeah, maybe, things were finally looking up.

“You’re late.”

Namjoon says after taking a slow sip from his coffee. He looks at you from over the rim of his glasses.

You roll your eyes, setting your bag down on the empty chair. “It's raining, and I forgot my umbrella. I had to wait for the rain to stop.”

“You could’ve texted to let me know.” He shrugs, setting his cup down on the coaster and flipping the page of his book.

You sigh, before (gently) throwing your phone onto the table. “It’s dead. And before you ask, no I didn’t bring a charger. No, Jungkook wasn’t in class today so he couldn’t give me a charger, an umbrella, or a ride. Jimin is sick. And Taehyung doesn’t even go to our school. He's probably getting high with his new fling, so I wouldn’t have been able to ask him either.” You say, listing all the solutions he would’ve thought about in seconds.

“Mhm,” he nods, closing his book. “And your boyfriend?”

Annoyed, you let out a whine, crossing your arms in front of you. “I don’t know, let me go downstairs and ask him. I’m sure he can stop managing a business to give me an umbrella.”

Namjoon leans his elbows against the table. “Trouble in paradise?” He tilts his head, clasping his hands on top of his book.

You shake your head, pulling out your chair and slumping down in it. “Hobi and I are fine. It’s not like he’s leaving in two months or anything.” You throw your hands up in exasperation.

It’s month seven into your shining relationship with Hoseok, and you should’ve known that things would start to hit the fan sooner rather than Later. Your boyfriend was in the middle of the most tumultuous change of his life. Things were moving quickly and his time dedicated to you was bumped down his monstrous daily to-do list.

Yet you couldn’t do or say anything because isn’t this what you signed up for?

“Ah, so there is trouble.” Namjoon chuckles before opening his book again, setting his fancy leather bookmark aside. “This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, they just attract problems.” He adds, giving you a pointed look.

You roll your eyes, “Shut up asshole, not all of us can be like you and Rina.”

“Sure you can, it's simple just don't attach any strings to it.” He shrugs, underlining a sentence in his book.

“Two people who have been only exclusively seeing each other for years literally the definition of strings attached. You can keep denying it all you want but she’s your girlfriend. You guys do all the couple-y stuff.” You grumble, leaning back in your chair, looking out of the window. The gloomy weather adds to your shitty mood.

“She’s not, we are not dating, and I don’t need to talk about this with you again. Rina and I are on the same page.” He finishes, taking a long sip from his coffee.

“Well, how would you feel if Rina was spending time with another guy, completely ignoring your presence when you walk into her coffee shop all wet and angry because your professor basically told you your topic for your essay was shit.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like you’re jealous of Yuri.”

“So what if I am?” You bite, “I understand that he’s training her to take over his position, but all he talks about is her and what he needs to teach her when we’re together. And whenever I come in they’re always laughing at something behind the coffee machine. And I know she’s nice and all but I would like his attention too.” You scoff.

Namjoon hums, tapping his index finger against the table. “Do you trust him?”

The question doesn’t catch you off guard, the obvious answer is on the tip of your tongue. But with how things have been going lately. You can’t help but hesitate.

“I don’t know anymore.” You whisper looking down at your hands, turning the ring on your middle finger. “I know I should, and I do…I think I do. It’s just things have been so shit lately and I feel like a burden to him because of everything he has to do.”

Namjoon lightly kicks your foot under the table, making you raise your head to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if I am being of much help, but he loves you. I know that whatever is happening he’s not doing it intentionally. Just talk to him about it.”

If only it were that easy.

“I’d love to but he never has time.”

“Why not talk to him now then.” He says reaching into his bag to take out his cigarettes and lighter.

“He’s busy downstairs with Yu–”

“No, I’m not busy now.”

You jump at the sound of your boyfriend's voice. You turn your head to look at him. A small tray with a mug of probably chamomile tea on top of it. His hair is shorter than the last time you saw him two days ago. He got a haircut and didn’t even tell you about it. That’s how low you have made it on his list. He can’t even send you a stupid picture of his new haircut. He can’t even send you a ‘goodmorning’ or ‘goodnight’ text. He also probably forgot that you were nervous for the meeting with your professor about your essay topic.

All these realizations make you want to roll into a ball and cry. You knew your time with Hoseok was limited. You just didn’t expect for the end to be so torturous.

“That’s what I told her.” Namjoon speaks, narrowing his eyes at you for a second before turning his attention to his best friend. “She’s jealous of Yuri, because you’ve been spending too much time with her.” He shrugs, walking quickly to the stairs before you can bury him ten feet underground.

You hear Hoseok let out a heavy sigh, and take the seat next to you. “Honeycakes,” he starts.

“Nice haircut.” You interrupt, slumping into your chair more. It earns another heavy sigh from the man sitting next to you.

“Is Yuri the reason why you’ve been so upset lately?” He says placing a hand on top of your knee underneath the table.

You let out a dry laugh before shaking your head. “No, it’s not her. It’s how you’ve been acting lately, it’s the time you’ve been spending with her. It's never having time for me anymore. It’s forgetting our date last week. It’s not even telling me that you got a haircut.” You finish, closing your fists to keep yourself from crying.

Hoseok gives your thigh a squeeze before leaning back in his chair. “You know how things have been lately. I’m trying so hard to do everything I need to do. I don’t mean to be so dismissive but I can’t juggle everything at the same time.”

You flick off a piece of lint from your jeans. “It’s nice to know that I’m just something you juggle around.”

“That’s not what I meant. You knew what would happen when I started my application process. You said you understood.”

“I did, or I thought I did Hoseok. I didn’t think I would become so secondary to you.” You sniffle. “I love that you’re chasing your dreams, but this is me trying to support you. I’m trying to understand how you’re feeling. But you stop me. You have shut me out and now I’m just something you remember sometimes.” You close your eyes, feeling the tears fall down your cheeks.

The last thing you wanted was to be crying like this in public.

“I-I want you to tell me when you’re having a hard time like you used to. I want you to feel like you can relax around me when we’re together. But every time we are together, we either argue, you don’t talk, or you talk about work, deadlines, or how you can’t wait to move. How do you think that makes me feel Hoseok?”

Hoseok sighs, and wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry.” He kisses your temple. “I wish you would’ve told me earlier before it got to this point.” He whispers, rubbing your back, while you lean your head onto his shoulder.

“But Hobi like you said, this is what I signed up for. This is what I agreed to.” You add bitterly.

“Yes Honeycakes, but you’re still my girlfriend. And I know that I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately, but I do care about you and I do love you.” He lifts your head from his shoulder. He gently grabs hold of your face, making you look at him. “Just like how you want me to talk to you when something is bothering me, I also want you to talk to me.”

You close your head sighing, “You’re right, I’m sorry that I keep making things difficult.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t. I’m the one that can’t seem to keep my girlfriend from doubting me. I’m the one who hasn’t told her how much I yearn to be in her presence at every waking moment.” He says, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “I love you, and I think that’s why I’ve been so avoidant lately. I know that our days are numbered and I would rather ignore the fact that I’m moving away soon than cherish the moments I get to spend with my family, my friends and you.”

You nod, holding out your pinky out to him. “I promise to keep trying my best.”

He hooks his pinky with yours bringing your laced fingers up to his lips. “I promise to keep trying my best too.”

“I love you,” You whisper, letting go of his finger and wrapping your arms around his waist.

His low laugh makes his chest vibrate against your head, “I love you.” He adds, rubbing soothing circles over your back. “Now, can you please drink your tea before you get a cold. I texted you earlier asking if you needed an umbrella but you didn’t answer. And now look at you coming in here all pouty and wet.”

You raise your head to look at him, opening your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the forgotten voice of your friend. “Her phone’s dead.” Namjoon throws his lighter onto the wooden table.

Hoseok tsks shaking his head, reaching over to push the tray of your lukewarm tea closer to you. “I should’ve known. I knew you didn’t charge it last night, just like I knew that you left your umbrella at my place.” He pinches your cheek. “How did your meeting go?”

“He basically said that I need to restart my essay topic over again.”

Hoseok laughs, bopping your nose with his own. “Well did he say those exact words?”

“No but it was basically implied.” You emphasize.

“Fine, I’ll talk to your study partner if my baby isn’t being told that she’s a genius all the time, then what am I paying him for.” He jokes, which earns a glare from said study partner.

“You’re not paying me, idiot.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, grabbing his brown leather messenger back and stuffing his cigarettes into the front pocket.

He’s grateful that he came back to smiles and not tears. The stoicness of his actions makes the two of you laugh hard. Your laugh resonates longer in his mind. It always does. No matter how much he tries to deny it. You always resonate longer in his mind. But he pushes that fleeting thought aside.

Namjoon is happy.

His friends are happy.

Things in his life were finally looking up.

“I have to go, but don’t be late next time and charge your phone.” He says hoisting his bag onto his shoulders.

You nod, saluting in his direction, before bursting out into a fit of giggles as Hoseok tickles your side.

Namjoon doesn’t stay for longer than he needs to. He’s already running late to meet Rina, but he can’t hide the smile taking up his space.

He can’t help but feel proud that things were finally looking up for you too.

a/n: I hope you have enjoyed it. I will try not to be so MIA and upload a little more frequently rather than every 6 months haha. But my life has been pretty busy lately. In the past few months. I have moved to a different part of Seoul and I got a new job. I basically just hang out with my friends when I have free time haha. I also do dance class 3 times a week, and I started personal training last week. But I will try to manage my time better because I do miss writing and this story!

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7brownsuga7 · 1 year ago

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Hobi boyfriend headcanon ♡

He’s literally like your best friend. You guys do everything together, it feels so natural. You can banter with him like a friend and love him like a lover.

His camera roll is filled with pictures and videos of you. He enjoys taking them, and loves to look back at them. He’ll even show you them and will laugh and watch you get embarrassed.

Random pics. Like I said his camera roll is filled with you. No matter where you are he has to stop and take pictures to capture the moment. Loads of candid and off guard pics too.

Posting you all the time with cute caption and music to go with it.

Doesn’t like to colour coordinate but likes to kind of match. Like not those cringy couple outfits, but he likes to coordinate his outfits with yours.

Very touchy feely. He loves having his hands on you and giving you little kisses. Hugs, hand holding, thigh gripping all of that.

Loves hearing about drama. You’ve got any work tea? He’s all ears. He knows about some drama? He’s telling you for sure! And if there’s any drama/tea involving you he will be on your side no matter what. “Baby that’s ridiculous you’re not in the wrong at all” (even if you are lfmao)

Pamper days! He will match his nails to yours! And will post them along with yours. He’ll definitely get your initials on them.

Cherishes little moments like playing music in the kitchen and dancing with each other.

This will be a relationship that involves dancing. Come on it’s Hobi we’re talking about! He’ll love having little silly dance battles or just getting lose and dancing around the house. He’ll also plan dates where you might dance, like bars/little gigs.

Whatever you want you get. He’ll cater to you 100% he loves buying you things and doing things for you. Whatever makes you happy.

Wants to see you succeed. Whatever your passion is he is behind 100%. He’ll help you achieve your goals and is your no.1 supporter.

He confides in you and loves talking to you about his interests and passion. And will love to introduce them to you.

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chimcess · 6 months ago

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Time After Time || jhs (Teaser)

Pairing: Time Traveler!Hoseok x Time Traveler!ReaderOther Tags: Scientist!Hoseok, Author!Reader, British!Hoseok, Older!Hoseok, Age Gap!AU Genre: Time Travel!AU, Early 2000s AU, Strangers to Lovers, Idiots to Lovers, Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut Word Count: TBD Summary: You're a young time traveler, drifting seamlessly between the past and present, living a fragmented life, never staying long enough in one time to form lasting connections. Everything changes upon encountering Hoseok, a brilliant scientist you had met in one of your adventures. Your journey takes a darker turn when you uncover the truth behind your mother's death, revealing a chilling connection to your abilities and the grim reality that your days are numbered. Determined to defy fate, Hoseok tirelessly searches for a solution to save you. As time becomes both an ally and an enemy, you face immense challenges, testing the resolve and strength of your bond. A/N: We have a new mini-series coming! Diving back into the fantasy genre has been really exciting, and I'm so happy to have this for you all. After spending the last year writing this off and on in between my other projects, it's finally finished and ready to start the final editing phase! I hope you love these characters as much as I do and enjoy the little world I crafted!

I had never given much thought to how I’d die. Two months, two years, two decades- it did not matter. Never could I have guessed this would be my final moments, body shaking and unable to stop myself from sizing as I watched my life flashing before my eyes. Every memory whip past me, body going in and out of the past and present in rapid succession until I could no longer breathe. Still, as afraid as I was, I never allowed my eyes to shut. If I was going to die, I wanted- needed- to see him first. My eyes rolled back, another powerful seizure overtaking my body.

“Y/N!”

I could not muster the strength to come back into my own body yet. On the inside I smiled. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry things had to end like this. That I would miss him. That I loved him. All the words that I was never able to say no matter the thousands of times they were on my lips. I felt hands grabbing hold of me. It was no use, I could feel my body bursting into another ray of light.

“What’s happening to you?” He sobbed.

Finally able to speak, I looked at him. I cemented him into memory. His thin-wired glasses, the color of his eyes, the curve of his cheek, the shape of his lips, and how wet his face was from his tears. If this was the last moment I had with him, I wanted it to matter. Reaching out, I could only hope I had enough time to say something- anything.

“I think I’m dying,” I croaked, head splitting open and body about to be taken somewhere else. Somewhere he wasn’t. “I love you.”

“I-”

But I never got to hear what he wanted to say. For my body was already getting sent back through time. Where? I was not certain, but I knew I was going to die at the end of this. There was no way my body could handle such violent changes. I closed my eyes.

At least I got to say it.

Coming September 2024...

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evillemons · 5 months ago

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hey im just wondering how do you think the members would react to their partner faking an orgasm during the act, or in any similar situation

I haven't forgotten about your request! I've been ruminating on it for a while and have just been a little uninspired to write the past few weeks. Also as a reminder, whenever I write this type of content it's usually in line with their ideal types/fictional girlfriends I gave them (see here).

How BTS would react to their partners faking an orgasm

*mild NSFW content*

RM - There's absolutely no point in trying to fake an orgasm in front of Namjoon. He can read people like a book, especially the ones he cares deeply about. He would know exactly what works for his girlfriend and what doesn't, and have every reaction and noise of hers memorized. So when she tries to fake it, he would immediately raise an eyebrow, possibly even in annoyance or disappointment. Instead of getting offended though, he would try to understand why she did it. Besides, I don't see it being difficult for Namjoon to make a woman cum, so this would be a rare occurrence.

Jin - I see sex with Jin not necessarily resulting in an orgasm every time for his girlfriend, mostly because I picture neither of them having the highest of sex drives. I do think Jin's pride would be quite hurt by her faking her pleasure, though. He would feel self conscious that he's not doing enough for her or think that she doesn't enjoy sex with him, making him retreat and feel distant from her. In addition to a physical disconnection, there would be a shift in trust on Jin's side as well.

j-hope - Hoseok would take it quite hard, and be quite disappointed. While I don't think he would notice that his girlfriend is faking during sex, he would probably have an epiphany about it later or coax her into telling him. For Hobi, faking an orgasm is less about the physical implications and more so the lack of communication. He would be disappointed not so much in himself as he's confident in his abilities, but with her for lying to him. It would definitely turn into a trust issue, and he might resent her or abstain from sex for a little while.

Jungkook - JK is another one I imagine this scenario to be unlikely for because he's quite good at offering pleasure to his partner. Because of his persistency, however, he might insist on eating her out or making her cum when she's not feeling it, resulting in her faking an orgasm to get the act over with. I don't think he would notice or find out unless she tells him (he's not quite that observant when it comes to peoples' nuances). If he does, he would be incredibly hurt. Halfway due to feelings of inadequacy, but also because he felt betrayed by her need to lie to him. He would need some temporary distance from the relationship to recover.

SUGA - Yoongi would be the least bothered by it. Rather than being offended or hurt, it would just baffle him as to why his partner would do such a thing. I imagine Yoongi and his partner as extremely trusting and communicative, so it would be unusual for either one of them to lie about feeling satisfied when not or wanting sex when they don't. He is also quite attentive in bed, so he can probably tell when his partner isn't going to orgasm that day and would be respectful of such. Overall, it wouldn't be a big deal and they would move on quickly.

Jimin - Jimin would be quick to resort to self blame, and probably wouldn't even think that she had faked an orgasm for any other reason than the fact that he wasn't performing well enough or paying enough attention to her needs in that moment. He would be hard on himself for a while, but would also try to communicate with her about why she did it and how he can do better. It wouldn't cause much strain on the relationship as a one time thing, but repeated occurrences would heavily affect his self-esteem.

V - Tae would be extremely unhappy to find out his girl had faked an orgasm because he prides himself highly on knowing her well enough to satisfy her every time. It would be an issue of feeling both upset with himself for not pleasing her properly, and of being a little unsettled by the fact that she would she would even feel the need to do that with him. Instead of becoming distant though, he would actually start to over-perform to try and compensate.

#bts #bts imagines #bts x oc #bts scenarios #bts rm #bts jin #bts suga #bts j hope #bts jimin #bts v #bts jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #bts headcanons

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xjoonchildx · 2 years ago

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kanalia | jhs x reader | chapter five: the king is a fool

banner by the amazing, incredible @kth1

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.

⚜️word count: 10K

⚜️notes: the queen is hot and bothered, literally & figuratively. the king puts several Ls in the disappointed but not surprised category, everyone gets drunk at some point. lord min is a terrible archer, yeona remains round and winning. the queen could melt steel with her sexual frustration, lord jung is not faring much better but at least he knows what he's doing, slightly awkward marital smut. the queen fights with everyone.

i could never have finished this chapter without these amazing authors & minds @miscelunaaa and @vyduan and one person who would probably level us all with her first fic if she decided to write one, @hobi-gif. please let me re-iterate how much it means to me that any one of you reads my stories, and it would make me endlessly happy to talk to you about it. you can talk to me here 💕

previous chapter final chapter

Hyeri is curious.

She examines the stains at the hem of your walking dress with narrowed eyes, pausing her thorough study of the red-brown splotches only to steal the occasional furtive glance your way.

Her lips purse as she shakes dirt loose from the grooves of your walking boots. She watches the sediment fall to the floor with a raised brow, uncharacteristically quiet as she reaches for the broom to sweep the mess away.

But her bewilderment only grows as she draws closer.

The older woman’s posture stiffens as she regards you, lips pulling into a thin line as she takes in the state of your wind-swept hair and grimy fingernails. You must reek of the ill temper you’ve brought back from your ride, the smell of it as pungent as the sweat and horse on your clothes. She tests your temperament in much the same way as she tests your bathwater, query as feather-light as the fingertip she skims along the surface.

“Are you… well, this evening, Your Grace?”

“As well as I ever am,” you answer succinctly, accepting her hand and stepping carefully into the tub. Woven into the spaces between each of your clipped words is rebuke; a silent warning to proceed no further. Your handmaid, who is by no means a meek woman, has the good sense to heed it.

So Hyeri says nothing as she takes a comb to the tangles in your hair, working them apart with peach oil. She says nothing as she scrubs away the dirt embedded beneath your normally pristine fingernails. And she says nothing still when you wince at the ache in your thighs as she helps you from the bath.

When the heavy chamber door finally pulls behind her, shutting the stares and the questions safely out, you make your way to bed. You extinguish the lamp on your nightstand and welcome the shadows.

And then you succumb to the darkness that envelops you, inside and out.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Steamy heat has put an end to weeks of pleasant fall weather.

You’ve sought refuge this afternoon beneath a tree at the edge of the castle’s sprawling open field. The oak, though grand, offers scant protection from the midday sun. A bead of sweat trickles down your neck and disappears into the linen at your décolletage.

“Between you and me, I’ve always found hunting to be an appalling sport.”

Boram shakes her head at the scene in the distance. The King and his men claim to be training for an upcoming hunt, but by all appearances, there is little training taking place. Instead they look to be bandying about like mischievous little boys, scrambling for position in front of the straw targets with bows in hand.

“I find it to be an exercise in vanity more than ability. Little more than male preening disguised as sport.” Boram dabs at her brow with a handkerchief and sighs. “What do you think?”

You don’t answer Boram’s question on account of your distraction. Try as you might to keep your eyes on the dashing elder Lord Kim or the charming young Lord Jeon or – heaven forbid, your husband – they wander to Lord Jung instead, over and over and over again. Your gaze pulled to his strong face as though drawn by a magnet.

He turns his head and his dark eyes find yours across the distance.

The butterflies you’ve felt in his presence before are not to blame for the unsettled feeling that comes over you now. The very sight of the man makes your stomach turn over, as though you can taste the vivid recollection of the last time you saw him.

The memory of that wonderful ride – and of the horrible way it ended – are still bitter on your tongue. Like picking the most beautiful fruit in the orchard only to find it sour and decaying inside.

“Your Grace?”

You blink.

“I say this to you as my friend and not my Queen,” Boram says, pausing to clear her throat. “You don’t seem yourself today. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nothing at all,” you lie quickly, smoothing down the damp curls springing up around your ears. “I’m fine, truly. Though I suppose it is possible the heat is making me cross. I can barely think in such conditions.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Boram laments, reaching over to give Yeona’s belly a tickle. The baby curls into herself like a starfish, giggling as she rolls around on the blanket. “Yoongi says it will take a rain to break it. But until then, we must all suffer.”

“And suffer we shall,” you echo under your breath, watching Lord Jung load his bow in the distance. He sets his lithe body in a precise stance then draws his arm back and releases his arrow. It flies in a tight arc and lands just below the bullseye on the target. The men erupt into raucous cheers. You resist the urge to scowl.

“As for the hunting,” you add, “I think men are just as guilty of the frivolity they so often accuse women of. Not that any one of them is likely to admit it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Boram laughs. “Men are not known to be skilled in the art of introspection.”

“They certainly are not.”

And why should they be? Men never have to stop and consider the consequences of their actions. They alone decide the rules of engagement. They are free to be as vain and as frivolous and as thoughtless as their hearts desire. Horrid, infuriating creatures.

Lord Min steps up to the target. His stance is uneven and his arrow is wild the very second he lets it loose. It flies yards from the target and lands off in the grass. The men jeer loudly.

“Poor Yoongi,” Boram winces as she watches the men tease him. “He’s never been much of an archer, I’m afraid.” But the good-natured Lord Min appears to take it all in stride, shrugging off their taunts as he trades his bow for a fresh tankard of ale.

The King takes his turn next – the lines of his body thicker and stronger than Lord Jung’s, but no less elegant. The men circle around your husband as he draws the bow back with one strong arm. He takes careful aim with his arrow and deftly plants it just above the target’s bullseye. The sound of the men’s whooping echoes across the field.

And so it goes for a while, with the men taking turns loosing their arrows to varying degrees of success.

Lords Park and Jeon both prove to be adequate archers, hitting the targets more often than not. The elder and younger Lord Kims are less skilled and spend the lion’s share of their time plucking arrows from the grass behind the targets. Lord Min quickly gives up on the endeavor entirely, opting instead to sit with his ale and heckle the others.

But the two best archers on the field refuse to be distracted by drink.

The King and Lord Jung set an arduous pace, loading and firing their arrows in quick succession. Even at a distance, even with your meager knowledge of archery, you can discern that both men are quite evenly matched in terms of skill. They load, fire, and strike their respective targets with precision.

On and on they persist – despite the brutal heat, despite the fact that the other men have begun to tire. One by one the other Guardsmen surrender, abandoning their bows and collapsing onto the grass to watch.

“These two seem quite serious, don’t they?” Boram notes.

They certainly do. The air of silly fun that’s sat over the group for much of the afternoon is all but gone now and what began as a diversion for all of the men has clearly become a challenge between just two. The other Guardsmen seem to sense the shift in atmosphere as well, their faces earnest as they watch the King and Lord Jung compete.

Physically, the two men are quite different. The King’s muscular arms and chest serve him well as he steadies his bow and fires. In contrast, Lord Jung’s body is lithe, sleek. He moves with an agility the King cannot. But both wear matching expressions of determination. And though this competition might have been amiable at the start, it’s now evident that neither man is willing to leave the field without a clear victor.

Lord Min calls out to them both – voice too distant for you to make out his words – and the men appear to nod in agreement. They both step back from the targets, increasing the difficulty of each shot. But it takes only a few more arrows to prove that the added distance is no hindrance to either man. Both set their stances again, both aim and fire, and both land their arrows with ease.

The Guardsmen sitting nearby fall silent, and in the absence of their racket the King’s answering growl of frustration echoes over the entire field.

“Oh my,” Boram whispers. “I’d heard there was some tension between them, and it would certainly appear to be so.”

It certainly would. Right now, the King and Lord Jung look more like rivals seeking to settle a score than lifelong friends.

The King’s agitation is apparent in every move he makes, in the way he jerks the arrows out of the straw targets and stalks back into position. Lord Jung’s agitation is equally apparent. He accepts a skin of water from Lord Min without so much as a thanks and hands it back once he’s drained it.

It’s a strange thing to see the handsome Guardsman challenge his King with the very same passion in which he’d defended him just days prior.

“Has the King spoken to you about it?”

“No,” you admit stiffly, “He has not. Are you determined to keep me in the dark, as well?”

“Heavens, no,” Boram protests, pulling Yeona into her lap. She hands the baby a rice cake and Yeona sets to gumming at it right away. “I would never want you to think that I’m speaking ill of the King, is all.”

“I could never think that of you.”

There is hesitation in Boram’s face when she flicks her dark eyes back to meet yours.

“Well, the details I have are few,” she starts slowly. “But what I know is that the King expressed a wish to see Lord Jung married again and Lord Jung, from my understanding was – ” she pauses, carefully considering her next words,“ – less than amenable to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Yoongi says they fought over the matter. Quite thoroughly, from what I’ve been told.”

“I see,” you say, taking great care to keep your expression impassive. “And did Lord Min explain why Lord Jung is so opposed to marriage? He’s still a young man. I can certainly see why the King would think it a logical proposition.”

Boram’s lips purse as she thinks.

“I do not know that I can say. Though I consider Lord Jung to be a dear friend, he can be terribly private about some matters.”

You cut your eyes towards the field to search for the man in question.

Does she really know Lord Jung? Do you? Today there is no sign of the man who’d leveled you with a smile in the Great Hall, no trace of the man who’d teased you about riding clothes before helping you onto your mount. The man you see now wears a strained expression as he watches the King take aim, his energy volatile like a pot ready to boil over.

Perhaps you’d been foolish to think him so different from the King. Perhaps they are as evenly matched in the art of duplicity as they are the skill of archery.

“So what will come of it?” you ask after a while. “Will the King – make him marry?”

“I don’t know,” Boram admits. “And therein, I suppose, is where much of the tension lies. Lord Jung has already taken a bride once in service to the Kingdom. I can’t imagine he’d be inclined to do it again.”

There’s a sudden commotion on the field then, an outburst that has Lords Park and Jeon on their feet. The younger men rush to meet the King and Lord Jung mid-field, nodding as the King speaks. Both take off running at once.

“I’ve no clue what that is all about, but I do wish they’d end this already,” Boram grumbles, watching the young men disappear behind the tree line as they go off in search of whatever it is the King’s asked for. “I don’t know how much longer I can last in this heat.”

“Nor I,” you agree, watching the King and Lord Jung speak to one another. Both men look sober, the lines of their faces hard. “But it seems we’ll all have to endure it for just a bit longer in order to humor this contest of male prides.”

Some arduous minutes later, Lords Park and Jeon make their return to the field.

The dust kicked up by the horses they ride precedes them, the ground parched from weeks without rain. Both men arrive in a cloud of grime – Lord Jeon on the King’s mount and Lord Park on Lord Jung’s– and dismount without delay, handing the reins over to their elders.

So this is how they will decide the victor.

“Well, let’s hope they keep their wits about them,” Boram sighs. “Lest they both break their legs in the heat of competition.”

“Yes, let’s,” you mutter.

The King is first to take his turn, of course.

He mounts Jeonsa with ease despite the horse’s grand height and takes his time warming the warhorse up. The King runs his mount in circles around the target until he’s satisfied with his plan and the timing of his shot. He steadies himself against the jostling with his strong thighs, pulling his bow back to fire. The arrow hits the target just below the bullseye.

The men, who’ve spent hours now drinking in the hot sun, erupt into a chorus of ruffian cheers.

Lord Jung wastes no time taking to his own mount. His horse is leaner and quicker than Jeonsa, and it’s clear that he commands complete control of the animal’s every step. Both horse and rider move as one as he urges his mount faster, straightening his back to fire. The arrow hits the target just above the bullseye.

The men are getting rowdy now, egging on both competitors as they circle on their horses. Their shouting is louder, more animated, and you would not at all be surprised if there were a few healthy wagers underway. You wonder which of the men they’ve bet on.

You wonder which of the men you would bet on before pushing the thought away and reminding yourself that you’re not particularly fond of either at this moment.

The King circles Jeonsa around the target once again, taking his time about it. He seems to consider every circumstance surrounding his next shot – the angle, the speed, the light wind that blows east. After a great deal of circling and thought, he rears back to release his arrow.

It lands on the target, just above the arrow planted by Lord Jung.

The shouting from the men becomes a low roar.

Lord Jung pointedly ignores the commotion, rolling his shoulders as he stares down the target, brow knit in concentration. Soon he’s urging his mount to move, the pair fluid as they circle the target.

Just like the King, Lord Jung circles longer for this shot than he had for the first. Twice he draws back as though ready to fire and thinks better of it. But after painstaking deliberation, he finds his stride. He pulls his arm back and sets his stance. Then he releases his arrow.

And it misses the target entirely.

It flies off the end of Lord Jung’s bow with astonishing speed, gliding just to the right of the straw and landing off in the distance. The men are on their feet now, jumping and yelling and slapping one another on their backs. Lord Jung shakes his head in disgust.

“Well,” Boram reaches for her basket, loading her things into it with haste. “That’s settled now. I certainly hope at least one of them feels better. Let’s move into more liveable conditions, shall we?”

You open your mouth to agree just as you spot the King barreling towards you atop Jeonsa, leaving the men celebrating his victory on the field behind.

You nearly stumble over the hem of your dress in your rush to rise to your feet. Your husband is grinning widely when he reaches you, stopping his mount long enough to extend one large hand. You place your hand in his and he dips his head to plant a kiss on your fingers.

“Well done, You Grace,” you demur, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “A hard-fought victory.”

“Thank you. I’m quite pleased with the outcome.”

The King acknowledges Boram with a smile before turning his mount to ride back to his men. You put a hand to your brow to shade your eyes and watch as they cheer for him – reward him with the adulation he’s clearly worked so hard for.

But a thought occurs to you as you examine the scene in the distance.

There is no sign of Lord Jung.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King comes to you that night – hair damp and smelling of fine soap, breath tinged faintly with ale.

He coaxes you to your knees just as he’s done so many times before. His fingers slide against your most secret place, slippery just as they’ve been so many times before. And then he’s pushing inside you, hard and hot just as he’s been so many times before.

But there is something different about him tonight.

Your husband’s touch is rougher than you remember. His grip on your waist is harder than you remember, large hands moving from your waist to your backside to dig his blunt fingertips into the soft flesh. His thrusts are more forceful than you remember, more erratic, powerful enough to push you up the length of the bed.

You fist your hands into the bedding and push back, refusing to allow your knees to buckle under the pressure. That earns you a low groan from the King – a sound that strikes a strange chord inside you; sends a shiver racing up your spine. You press your hot face into the sheets.

Perhaps Namjoon is still feeling the effects of an arduous afternoon in the hot sun. Perhaps he’s still in his cups after a night of drinking with his men.

Or perhaps it is all just a trick of your mind.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Morning brings no improvement in your mood. Quite the opposite, in fact.

You wake snappish, jarred from a fitful sleep by the sudden appearance of light in your chamber. Shafts of it – hot and harsh – stream through your windows, spill across your duvet, assault your eyes. You bury your face in the pillow in a futile attempt to avoid it, sweat beading at the nape of your neck until the uncomfortable warmth forces you to quit the bed.

But the rude manner of your awakening is only one reason for your irritation.

The other is the lingering tenderness between your legs, a dull ache you can feel with each careful step. The sensation is more an annoyance than a true discomfort, but it vexes you nonetheless. Each muted throb serves as an unwelcome reminder of your visit from the King, of the peculiar way he’d bedded you last night.

Your face flames as you think of it.

What is he about, your husband? And what of the juvenile, chest-thumping nonsense you’d witnessed yesterday afternoon? The combative way he’d gone up against Lord Jung and the grand show he’d made of coming to you to fête his victory. Boorish, absurd behavior – all of it.

You go about your morning ablutions in silence, unwilling to meet Hyeri’s eyes for even one moment. You are in no mood to withstand her meddling today – well-intentioned or otherwise – and so it is for the best that she helps you wash and dress in relative silence.

If there is something the older woman means to say, she has the good sense to swallow it, murmuring only a quiet warning about the heat as you slip out the chamber door.

And heavens, how you are wholly unprepared for the heat.

It, too, has worsened overnight – the air around you nearly thick enough to drink. You hurry towards the aviary, spurred on by the promise of the shade beneath its trees, but by the time you are finally seated at your desk you are soggy and sticky all over. Slick with sweat between your thighs and beneath your arms and breasts.

Perhaps you should have heeded Hyeri’s warning.

The thought rankles you as you open your book and attempt to pick up your story where you’d left it. You start and stop the same sentence over and over again, the heat so tyrannical that you can barely breathe, much less think. Even the King’s prized birds refuse to fly under such conditions – opting instead to perch on the highest branches, wings lifted to cool themselves with the occasional passing breeze.

The stillness unnerves you; makes your aggravation mount with each unbearable minute that ticks by and before long, you throw your novel down in frustration. This will not do.

Loathe as you are to spend another day confined to the castle’s thick stone walls, there is no avoiding it. You’ll not survive another half hour in this heat, which means you’ll certainly not be able to pass an entire afternoon in it. You huff as you throw your things back into your basket and stalk off towards the aviary’s entrance.

But perhaps you should have been more mindful.

Immersed as you are in this black mood, you don’t notice the brambles growing at the edge of the heavy gate. You brush past them in a hurry, only to be wrenched back by the thorns that take hold of your skirt. You tug at the material with your free hand, successful only at tearing a hole in the fine linen but unsuccessful at pulling yourself free. You drop your basket in the struggle and the contents spill out, an apple rolling to a stop at your feet.

It is then that you do something very unladylike, something that would have earned you an exaggerated gasp from your sister or a sharp rebuke from your mother.

You swear. Loudly.

You summon all of your frustration and scream what is perhaps the most undignified word you know at the very top of your lungs, the vulgarity echoing in the aviary’s eerie quiet. And though it’s done nothing to solve your current predicament, there’s something truly satisfying about speaking the nasty word out loud, about shouting it into existence.

That is, until someone coughs.

“I take it you need some help, Your Grace?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you whirl in the direction of the voice.

Lord Min approaches slowly, eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in your sorry state. You’ve no idea where he came from, but at this very moment you’ve never been so horrified and grateful to see him, all at the very same time.

“Yes, I – ” you start and stop, flustered by both your behavior. “ – I’m stuck. The brambles are caught in my skirt and – ”

“Oh yes, I see,” he says, leaning down to examine the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He tugs at the bottom of your skirt and you wince at the sound of the fabric tearing. “You’ve got yourself quite tangled up here, haven’t you?”

“I believe I have,” you admit with embarrassment. Lord Min gets down on his knees and begins plucking thorns and burs out of the fabric, brow knit with concentration as he attempts to extricate what remains of your fine linen dress.

You clear your throat.

“My Lord, I hope I didn’t – Well, rather, I hope you were not offended by that word you heard me say. It’s not a word that I usually use, not really. Well, not ever. What I mean to say is that I know of coarse language, of course, but I’m certainly not in the habit of using it.”

“What word?” Lord Min interrupts your rambling from his perch at your feet, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Did you say something, Your Grace? I must not have heard it.”

The corners of his mouth curve into a cautious smile, which you return with a timid one of your own. His teasing is welcome. It brings badly-needed levity to your embarrassing situation and lightens the heaviness of this atrocious day.

“What’s this, Min?”

At once, the gesture dies on your lips.

Lord Jung comes into view by way of the same path taken by Lord Min, though his sudden appearance does not bring you the same kind of relief. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The very moment he’s standing before you, critical gaze moving from you to Lord Min and back, you feel absolutely lightheaded with anxiety. You wonder what he must make of the scene he’s stumbled upon: Lord Min on his knees, at your feet, hands fisted in your skirts.

“You Grace.” The lines of Lord Jung’s beautiful face are hard as he acknowledges you, his voice stiff and formal in a way that makes it foreign to your ears. He bows to you much in the same way, body rigid as he performs the required motion.

“My Lord,” you return with similar formality.

“Her Grace is stuck,” Lord Min explains, unaware or perhaps unbothered by the provocative position the two of you have been discovered in. “I’m trying to free her without ripping this linen to shreds. Could use your help, seeing as you’re standing there. Push that branch back for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Oh, but now you feel a migraine coming on. Lord Jung squeezes into the space beside you, leaning over Lord Min to push the brambles back so that the older man may have both hands free to work. At this point, both men are too close, but he is far too close. Heat blazes a path up your neck and into your cheeks.

Inhale, you twit. Exhale.

“Last few, Your Grace,” Lord Min announces, voice muffled by your skirts. “I think the linen will need a bit of mending, but not much more.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Lord Jung’s gaze connects with yours. His dark eyes, normally so warm and expressive, are flat as he regards you. In fact, everything about the handsome guardsman’s countenance is uncharacteristically severe today, from the deep knit of his brows to the way his bow-shaped mouth presses into a firm line. He looks away from you without so much as a smile.

Is he – is he angry with you?

Your mouth nearly falls open at the realization. What right would Lord Jung have to be angry with you? It was he who’d laid the trap with the promise of a perfect afternoon spent riding and he who’d sprung the trap by defending your husband’s dishonesty.

If either one of you had a just claim to animosity, it would most certainly be you.

The awful word you’d uttered at the very start of this ridiculous dilemma springs right to the tip of your tongue. If only you had the courage to spit it at him. Horrid, infuriating man.

“There now,” Lord Min announces. “I think we’ve got it. Hang on to that bramble for a bit longer while Her Grace steps away from the gate.”

You start forward slowly, steps mercifully unencumbered by gnarled plants. Though Lord Min has done his best to salvage the fine linen, your skirt is now covered in a fine dusting of grime, torn in places from your knees to your ankles. Hyeri will have a fit when she sees you, but you couldn’t care less about the state of your ruined dress. The only thing that matters now is quitting this place at once.

“Thank you so much, Lord Min,” you breathe, dropping to your knees to gather your scattered things. The elder guardsman helps you retrieve the wayward charcoals and papers, which you hurriedly stuff back into your basket. “I’ll be off now and won’t take up any more of your afternoon.”

With that, you rush to your feet and turn on your heels to leave. You try not to think about the scene you’re leaving behind – Lord Min puzzled by your sudden exit, Lord Jung affronted by the fact that you’d pointedly ignored him in your thanks.

You make haste with those first few steps towards freedom, only to be pulled back once again. Only this time, not by jagged brambles.

“Your Grace.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at the sound of the gruff voice behind you. You turn around slowly, acutely aware of both men watching your every move. When Lord Jung steps forward, your eyes fall to the gently worn leather binding in his hands.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

You take great care to school your features, though the panic rising inside of you threatens to spill out. Your most private thoughts are inside that book. Fragments of poems and unsent letters and one horribly incriminating sketch of a man who is most certainly not your husband.

“Thank you, My Lord,” you mumble, resisting the urge to run to him and snatch the book right out of his grip. You can feel him watching your every move as you approach to accept it with unsteady hands.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

A storm is coming. You can feel it.

Never mind that the sun is shining – or that the sky outside is a perfect, crystalline blue. The clouds dotted across the horizon hang in the air, unmoving. There is no wind to rustle the leaves in the trees. The calm is ominous. Foreboding.

“... think none of the people in this kingdom have ever seen this kind of display before. I imagine they’ll be quite awed by it. I’ve only ever seen it once myself, in a village far North. A strange lot, those people are. After all these years, they still dabble in the dark arts.”

At the other end of the long dining table before you sits the King. He’s been prattling on like this for the better part of ten minutes now; far too absorbed in his grand talk of the festival to note that his audience of one has yet to engage with a word that’s come out of his mouth.

“It’s strange though, to think of celebrating a Fall Festival in this heat. Though I generally prefer the heat to the cold, these conditions are quite beyond the pale. We’ll have to have just as much water on hand as we do ale.”

You make a sound under your breath that you hope will pass for discourse.

“Of course, there’s still much to be done. But the stewards assure me that everything will be ready in time. And there will be much to celebrate this year as I’m told the crops in all our holdings are faring well. The wheat has – ”

The King’s jabbering comes to an abrupt stop.

“You’ve barely eaten,” he notes, in a sudden fit of awareness. He regards you over the rim of his wine glass, curious. “Is the jajangmyeon not to your liking?”

“It is to my liking,” you insist, pushing the wheat noodles around your bowl in a half-hearted attempt to appease him. “As always. I suppose I’m just not very hungry tonight, is all.”

“I find that surprising,” the King says, as though you’d asked his opinion on the matter. “I understand you were brave enough to venture out into that awful heat this afternoon. I would have thought you’d be famished tonight.”

Every muscle in your body tenses at once.

“Oh?”

“I spoke with Hyeri this afternoon,” the King elaborates, oblivious to his misstep. “She said she’d warned you against leaving the castle under those conditions, but you’d off and done it anyway.” He chuckles under his breath as he recounts the conversation. “I think you surprise her at times with how strong-willed you can be.”

Beneath the table, your hands ball into fists.

The thought of Hyeri disclosing the details of your day to the King, no matter how trivial, incenses you. You imagine them together over tea, sharing a laugh as they trade observations about your shortcomings. Or worse – meeting with one another somber-faced as they commiserate over your inability to produce a child.

That thought is the most insidious. Your nails dig savagely into your palms.

“Do you and Hyeri discuss my comings and goings often, then, Your Grace?”

Your husband shrugs, helping himself to another generous serving of noodles.

“Often enough, I suppose.”

“So am I then to assume that when you ask me about my day, you are merely standing on ceremony? Surely you must be, given that you’ve already had a full report from my handmaid.”

The King sets down his chopsticks to look at you, perplexed by the contentious turn in this conversation. But he’s careful to school his features as he considers what to say next.

“Of course not,” he starts slowly. “I ask after you because I genuinely want to know about your day. It’s a consideration that I would think customary between husbands and wives.”

Is he – is he toying with you?

What on earth would His Grace know about what’s customary between husbands and wives? He is the one who’s made this marriage into a farce with his deceit and adultery. He is the one who’s held you at arm’s length from the very start in order to protect the woman he truly loves. Your husband’s hubris is as astonishing as it is aggravating. Horrid, infuriating man.

“Well I, for one, would genuinely like to know about your day, Your Grace,” you say, unable to keep venom from seeping into your every word. “So tell me then – as is customary between husband and wives – how did you pass the afternoon?”

The color drains from the King’s face.

You should shut your mouth now and say no more, you know it – but by now you are far too consumed with anger to give much thought to the consequences of sharp words. You push the bowl of jajangmyeon away and get to your feet.

“Nothing of interest to share, then?” You raise a brow as you stare down at your husband, unwilling to look away for even one moment. “What a pity. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The King’s eyes narrow but his mouth stays shut. He says nothing in his own defense, says nothing to attempt to placate you.

And he says nothing as you turn your back on him and walk out the door.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first crack of thunder sounds just as you’re readying for bed. You stand at your window and watch the storm roll in.

Black clouds build off in the distance, discernible only by the occasional flare of lightning. Each bright flash is followed by an earth-shaking rumble that satisfies you somehow, as though you’ve manifested this squall with your thoughts. The violent wind and rain it carries with it a mirror of the tempest inside you.

“Do you require anything else, Your Grace?”

Hyeri’s voice comes from behind, timid and small. She’s been tiptoeing around your chamber all evening, clearly disquieted by the cold reception you’d given her upon your return. The well-bred, well-behaved woman inside you whispers that you should turn to her, do something to reassure her, but you refuse.

Fortified by your anger, you keep your back to Hyeri and go on staring at the storm clouds.

“No,” you say firmly. “You can retire for the night.”

“But I – ” Hyeri starts, stops, and then sighs. “Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”

And you do wish. You wish for Hyeri to leave you – not just tonight, but every night. And you wish not just for Hyeri to leave you – but all of them. You’ve grown quite tired of humiliating yourself in this kingdom; of placing your trust in people who’ve made you into a fool time and time again.

There is rustling as the older woman hurriedly gathers her things, then a brief pause before she slips out the door. The heavy thud that finally announces her departure brings you some small measure of peace, but it does not last.

Your bath-damp body is warm when you slip beneath the heavy duvet. Too warm. Though the storm raging nearby brings with it the promise of cool rain, it is still too far off to displace the humid air in your chamber. You toss and turn beneath the heavy covers for a while, your thin nightgown soaked through with sweat by the time you finally kick your bedding away.

So you lie there in the dark, close to feverish with heat and unable to settle down. Every time you close your eyes, you’re taunted by images – of Hyeri, of the King, of the child that never comes. What you would give to be able to quiet your mind, to have some respite from the reality of your circumstances.

But there will be no respite, not any time soon. The thunder outside is close enough now to shake the castle’s heavy walls with each new blast that rips through the sky. You feel the tremors right down to your bones, the sensation causing goosebumps to scatter across your skin.

In spite of the heat, you shiver.

There’s a prickling that starts at your scalp and goes right down to your toes. It makes you itch with the desire to drag your nails down your arms and legs. It makes you want to squeeze your thighs together, tight and tighter still until your agitation is gone. Perhaps that is the solution.

You cup your breasts through the damp, thin material of your nightgown. They feel sensitive, tender — and the very moment you brush your fingertips over your nipples they come to life, pebbling against the gauzy fabric.

You close your eyes and try to imagine that your hands are not your own. That the fingers that close around the aching buds, teasing and testing, are not your fingers. That the dormant pleasure the pressure rouses inside you has instead been roused by someone else.

In your mind, the hand that steals between your thighs is not your own. It’s larger than yours, the fingers longer and rougher than yours. You imagine that hand parting your legs, coarse fingertips slippery against the wetness gathered at your entrance. And you imagine it caressing you there, expertly stroking the spot that makes the air leave your lungs.

What would it be like to be touched like this? To have a lover’s lips at your neck and his hand between your thighs? To have the weight of him pressing down on you, the scent of him enveloping you – to feel his warm breath fan over your skin?

These thoughts only serve to make the ache between your legs more pronounced. But the more you attend to it, the sharper it becomes. Pleasure blooms with each inexpert pass of your fingers over that place, but in its wake your desperation grows, too.

You whine under your breath as you touch yourself harder, faster – a heaviness building at your core that makes you feel full, overripe. There is relief on the other side of whatever this is, and you know it.

But can you reach it?

Your imaginary lover would know how to help you reach it. He would take you in his arms and in his mouth and leave no inch of your body untouched. He would fuse himself to you, skin-to-skin, and show you how to beckon your pleasure at will, help you realize its full potential.

In your mind’s eye you can see him – legs and arms strong and lean, golden skin illuminated by firelight. The mouth he sets to your aching nipples would be soft, lips pretty and bow-shaped. And his hair would be dark and his eyes would be a rich chocolate and his face would be –

A clap of thunder explodes in the sky.

Your eyes fly open – unseeing – as you gasp from the shock of it. It leaves you trembling, body slick with sweat and limbs tingling from the sudden fear. You lie there in the dark, panting as you wait for your heart to stop racing.

And just like that, the pleasure you’ve been chasing is gone. Quick as a rabbit.

Outside your window the heavens weep, the rain beating against the ground like a hail of arrows.

The dry earth enjoying a relief that always seems to elude you.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“Magnificent, Your Grace.”

Hyeri passes a hand over the embellishments in your bodice, chest puffed with pride as she examines the dressmaker’s handiwork. Though her brown eyes have long gone dull and gray with age, they shine as she steps back to take you in from head to toe. “Just magnificent.”

It is magnificent – far and away the finest garment you have ever worn.

Rich, plum-colored velvet embellished with gilt thread, the plunging neckline and bliaut sleeves lined with pressed bezants. You hardly recognize the woman looking back at you in the mirror, the one with her hair swept off her neck in an intricate braided bun, eyes darkened with kohl, ears and neck adorned with sparkling gold. Whoever that woman is, she is far bolder and far more sophisticated than you.

“There’s nothing like his work,” Hyeri muses, running a thumb over pattern pressed into the hem of one sleeve. “Frail as he is, it takes him ages to complete a dress. But he’s worth it. Worth the wait and worth every single won.”

You study the intertwining gold patterns stitched into the bustline. No doubt the King has paid dearly for this dress and all its fine accoutrements. The thought of your husband spending an obscene amount of money on it nearly puts a smile on your face.

“You look remarkable in this dress,” Hyeri remarks quietly, wrinkled mouth lifting at the corners with a cautious smile. “Well, of course, you look remarkable everyday, but especially tonight.”

Her expression is bittersweet as she reaches for you, gently tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen loose of your braid behind your ear. This newfound emotional distance has been hard on her, you know. It’s been hard on you, too. And though holding her at arm’s length has proven difficult at times, it feels somehow vital to your self-preservation.

“Don’t forget your shawl,” Hyeri says softly. “It’s gotten quite cold out there.”

It certainly has. The storm that ripped through the kingdom just days ago took the insufferable heat with it, leaving behind a pure, crystalline cold. The night sky is clear enough to see for miles.

So you accept the shawl from Hyeri with a quiet thanks, avoiding her eyes as you slip out the chamber door.

By the time you make your way to the great hall, the revelry is already well underway. You can hear it pulsing through the slats of the heavy wooden doors, the music and commotion contained within powerful enough to stir the ground beneath your feet. The footmen posted at either side of the entrance bow deeply as you approach, then move to pull the doors open.

You raise a hand to still them, wanting a moment to steel yourself before entering the fray.

“I’m not – If you’ll just give me – ”

One of the guards steps forward to speak when your words falter.

“No need to explain, Your Grace,” he says earnestly. “Just let us know when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” You take as deep a breath as your elaborate gown will allow. “Truly.”

You already know what awaits on the other side of those doors. Artificial smiles that hide whispers about your empty womb, honeyed and hollow words of praise from your exasperating husband. Pity too, perhaps, from those connected enough to be privy to the true state of your marriage.

But you’ll bear it. You must. Because it’s what’s expected of you and because your political survival in this kingdom depends on it.

“Well then,” you say, smoothing down your velvet skirt with trembling hands. "I believe I've had time to collect myself."

The very same footman that had spoken to you just moments earlier gives you a sympathetic smile as he places one hand on the door’s ornate wrought iron handle. He pauses to look at you before signaling to the other footman, one brow raised as if to say are you sure?

You swallow thickly and nod your affirmation.

Slowly, the heavy doors are pulled open, creaking as they part. You step forward to enter, feeling a rush of cool air at your heels. The brief hush that falls over the great hall makes your heartbeat quicken.

But then the King stands.

He rises to his feet and bows to you, and every person inside the great hall follows suit. You return his bow and then straighten, holding your head up high as you set off to fulfill your duty.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King makes no mention of the tense meal you’d shared just a few nights prior. Not that you’d expected him to. If anything, your husband’s predilection for avoidance has been one of his most consistent traits. And if he’s harbored any ill feelings about the curt words you’d spoken that night, surely they’ve been washed away in a torrent of ale.

He’s already a bit drunk when you take your seat beside him – pleasantly so, if his ruddy cheeks and leisurely smile are any indication. His dark eyes are glassy as they sweep over your form, taking in the grandeur of your dress. But they linger at your bust for just a heartbeat too long and it takes all the self-control you can muster to not kick him beneath the table.

“You look fetching in that dress,” the King notes, reaching for his tankard. “The color suits you.”

“Oh? Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve dozens more just like it on the way.”

You startle a laugh from the King just as he’s taken a drink and he splutters on it, coughing until tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “Very good of you to warn me before the bill comes due,” he wheezes.

“But of course, Your Grace.” You infuse your words with cloying, contrived sweetness, putting a hand over your heart for emphasis. “It is the very least I could do.”

The King chuckles as you turn to look out over the room.

The tables below the raised platform on which you both dine are teeming with people, their long wooden benches bowing beneath the substantial weight. They are littered with food and drink, tankards and platters and goblets scattered for as far as the eye can see.

You sip your wine and watch partygoers reach over one another for noodles and steal dumplings from their neighbors’ plates.

It takes a minute for you to spot Boram. She and Lord Min are tucked into a corner, cozy and close. Your dear friend is the very picture of contentment; resplendent in a royal blue gown, glowing in the torchlight when her husband presses a kiss to her temple. Your heart aches as you watch them. What you would give to have what they have – to know the fulfillment they’ve found in one another.

In fact, the Mins make for such a compelling tableau that you nearly overlook the one behind it. Lord Jung is dressed in an arresting black and gold tunic, dark hair styled away from his face and a tankard of ale in his hand. And he is not alone.

Seated close to him – so very close – is a woman. A beautiful woman, as best you can tell from a distance. Her dark red dress in perfect contrast to her shiny fall of dark hair, the garment cut to accentuate what can only be described as a generous bust. She leans in to Lord Jung as she says something, décolletage on full display when she throws her head back to laugh.

Your grip on the wine goblet in your hand tightens.

The woman is brazen, that much you can tell. Her proximity to the Guardsman is far too close to be proper, her scandalous – if stunning – manner of dress far too self-indulgent to be benign. And though you cannot make out clearly how she’s been received by Lord Jung, the very fact that he has not sent her away is telling. Is this the woman he intends to marry, then? Or just a diversion for the night?

You drain the wine that remains in your goblet and signal for the serving girl to bring you more.

Moments later Lord Jung, too, flags down a passing servant to fill his tankard. For a man who once took great pride in extolling his discipline with spirits, he seems to be exercising very little of it tonight. In fact, he looks to be indulging as much or perhaps even more than his fellow Guardsmen. Perhaps that is why he does not he does not move to distance himself when the alluring woman at his side places a hand on his arm.

You swallow another large sip of wine.

“It’s nearly time for the evening’s entertainment,” the King says. “I think you’ll be impressed by what’s in store.”

You cannot tear your gaze from the scene before you. You cannot stop staring at the comely woman at Lord Jung’s side – stiffening in your seat when she leans over to whisper in his ear.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you say absentmindedly, lifting your wine glass to your lips once again.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

When you were a girl, barely ten years old, your father had come home from a long journey with a fantastic tale.

He’d spoken of fire – in shades of red and green and gold – launched into the sky, embers raining down on the earth in a magnificent display. You’d been spellbound by the picture he’d painted for you, wishing desperately to see this phenomenon for yourself.

And now you have.

The King’s promise of a surprise well exceeds your expectations. Each new flare sent up over the open field is met with a hush from the crowd, followed by loud cheers and applause as it explodes into color.

“I brought them back from a village up North,” the King explains, preening at the crowd’s reception. “And though I wanted to show them right away, I made myself wait until the most advantageous time. What do you make of them?”

“They’re splendid,” you answer earnestly. “I’ve never seen anything so grand.”

The King hides a satisfied smile behind the rim of his tankard. By this point in the evening, he’s crossed the line from agreeably drunk to good and well soused – as have many of the others in attendance. You, too, are feeling the effects of your wine, experiencing that strange weightlessness that can only be brought on by drink.

And you are glad for the distraction of the fire display.

It’s helped pull your focus away from Lord Jung and that woman. Though each time there is a brief break in the presentation, you cannot help but search the throng for any sign of them. You wonder where they are right now. What they might be doing. But then you drown the bitter thoughts with the wine in your goblet.

The night wears on and the crowd around you becomes rowdier, louder – the ale barrels slowly disappearing one by one. Even the King is looking a bit worse for the wear. He’s sagged into the chair beside you, heavy-lidded as he watches the bright detonations that light up the sky.

You are not faring much better. A dull throb taps at your temples, no doubt the consequence of drinking too much wine, and you suspect that it will be far more pronounced come morning. You ought to retire for the evening now, while you still have some of your wits about you.

You open your mouth to say as much to the King at the very same time you catch sight of a slim man ambling away from the crowd. Though he’s hundreds of yards away and though there’s little light beyond the torches and the occasional embers in the sky, you recognize him right away.

You would recognize him anywhere.

Impulsively, you get to your feet and utter a rushed goodbye to the King. He bids you farewell with a sluggish smile and not a moment later he’s gone back to gazing skyward, mesmerized by the lights. Just ahead, Lord Jung slinks off into the shadows, moving with an unsteady gait.

And you follow him. To what end you cannot be sure.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Clearly, you’d given no real thought to this course of action.

If you had, you’d not be scurrying across damp grass right now, struggling to keep your balance in your beautiful velvet dress. The heavy fabric weighs you down with each step, making each footfall precarious. In fact, if you’d stopped for even a moment to consider the implications of stealing away to pursue a man who is not your husband, you’d have ended this lunacy long before it even began.

But here you are in the dark, chasing after Lord Jung. With only the moon to light your way.

The slender man moves quickly, unburdened by the trappings of women’s formalwear and assisted by his long legs. You lift the hem of your dress off the ground and do your best to keep up on the shadowy path. Just a short distance ahead you can make out the lines of a thatched roof and wooden fence.

It’s the stables, you realize, and the pieces start to fall into place.

He’s come here to meet that woman. The two of them must have agreed to leave the festival and come here for a secret tryst. Were you a woman in your right mind, that realization would stop you cold and send you running straight back to the castle. But you are absolutely not in your right mind. You are dangerous tonight; fearless from the wine flowing freely in your veins.

As such, the very thought of Lord Jung arranging for a passionate liaison with this woman has the opposite effect. It infuriates you. And you’ll not be satisfied until you can see the proof for yourself and then end this fixation once and for all.

Overhead, a flare of light illuminates the darkness just as you’re nearing the horse stalls. It’s followed by the sound of sizzling gunpowder, and it draws your attention skyward. You look up just in time to see wisps of fire tumble back to the earth. But when you fix your gaze forward again, Lord Jung is gone.

What on earth?

You’ve barely begun to consider your next move before your body is moving of its own volition, jerked right off the walking path by a hand that wraps around your arm like a band of steel. Lord Jung drags you behind the horse stall with one hand and claps the other over your mouth to smother the sound of hysteria that threatens to escape.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

He hisses the words, one by one, his low vibrato thrumming with barely-contained anger. You’ve yet to recover from the shock of being accosted in the dark and so you stare at him, bewildered and mute.

He releases you, dropping the hand covering your mouth to walk to the edge of the stables. You watch as he ducks his head around the corner to check the walking path. Once he’s satisfied you’ve not been followed, he rounds on you.

“Anyone could have seen you.”

“No one saw me,” you scowl, finding your voice. You rub your forearm where his fingers dug painfully into your flesh. “They’re all far too drunk to see anything, I assure you.”

The Guardsman shoves a hand through his dark hair and exhales deeply.

“What are you about tonight, Your Grace?”

A fair question, and one you ought to have considered before dashing off into the night. But you’d been so hellbent on hunting the man down that you’d given no real thought to what you’d do if you actually caught him. You hesitate for so long that he grows impatient, closing in on you.

“What,” he repeats slowly, “Are you about?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well, you ought to know,” he growls. “You ought to know damned well exactly what you’re about before you go off following men into the dark.”

But it’s not as though you’ve followed just any man into the dark, is it? You’d followed him. The admonishment riles you, bringing your temper back to a full boil. You straighten your spine and sear him with a withering look.

“That woman tonight. At the feast. She wants you to bed her.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes go wide just before they narrow. He stalks towards you slowly, forcing you to retreat until your back is flush to the stable’s rough wooden slats. Slivers of moonlight play off his angular face, making the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced.

He’s beautiful – even like this – even when he’s so irate that he can barely stand still.

“I know what she wants,” he murmurs, voice sinking to an octave that raises goosebumps on your arms. “What I do not know is what you want. What I do not know is why you are here.”

“So you intend to bed her,” you challenge.

Something dangerous flickers in the man's expression as he regards you, gaze potent enough to almost make you regret your sudden bout of daring. Almost.

“No.”

And so there is no tryst. No agreement between secret lovers. Adrenaline floods your veins, bringing with it a clarity that you’ve not had since you began drinking tonight. You’ve been reckless – so, so reckless – and now there is no undoing what you’ve done.

“I’ve answered your question and now you will answer mine,” Lord Jung warns, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What. Do. You. Want?”

All the fire has left you now. Whatever force possessed you to confront this man in this way has disappeared, leaving behind only a sickly taste in your mouth. You’ll feel more than just the wine in the morning, you know it.

“Brave enough to follow me into the dark, brave enough to demand I explain my plans for bedsport,” he continues, brows knit as he stares you down. “But somehow, not brave enough to tell me what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“I – ”

“Tell me then,” he goads, growing more agitated by the minute. “Open your mouth and speak. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

You ought to have slapped him across the face. At the very least, you would have earned the look he’s giving you right now – this frozen mask of incredulity that’s come over him. He backs away from you slowly, as though poised to run. But he doesn’t.

“You’re mad.”

“I am not mad,” you say evenly, with a poise you’d not thought yourself capable of. “You asked me what I want and I’ve told you. I want you to kiss me.”

Another burst of color explodes in the sky. A loud cheer goes up over the field nearby, a disquieting reminder of the hundreds of people milling about just a short walk away. The commotion seems to sober him.

“Go home, Your Grace.” His words are strangled, forced. “You are playing with fire. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

You stiffen, lifting your nose in the air.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you lie.

Your insistence only serves to make him even more agitated. He begins to pace back and forth, glowering at you as he moves.

“Go back to your castle, Your Grace. Go back to your fine life and your fine things and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I will not,” you refuse, petulant.

Lord Jung delivers his last blow, the fatal one, in a voice so graveled it sounds as though the words are spoken by a stranger. And perhaps he is a stranger, this man you’ve been so infatuated with. Perhaps he’s nothing like what you’ve made him in your own mind.

“Go back to your husband,” he growls. “Your King.”

Your humiliation is instant and acute. You burn with it, the embarrassment so all-consuming that it nearly makes you see stars. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, feel your heart pounding in your throat when you finally manage to speak.

“The King doesn’t want me,” you say stiffly. “Though I am certain you already know that.”

“The King is a fool!” he explodes, surging forward and slamming his hands down on either side of you. The outburst is violent enough to shake the horse stall and the venom in his countenance nearly makes you come out of your skin. His mouth hovers terrifyingly close to yours, so close that you can nearly taste the ale on his breath. You stop breathing altogether.

Then he wrenches himself away from you, staggering backwards as though he’s been burned.

“And so am I.”

i’d love to hear from you about this chapter! you can talk to me here. otherwise, i hope you enjoyed it and only the final chapter is left 💕

#hoseok smut #j-hope smut #bts smut #hoseok x reader #j-hope x reader #bts x reader #hoseok #bts hoseok #bts x you #hoseok x you #bts scenarios #bts au #hoseok imagine #bangtanarmynet #thebtswritersclub #bangtan

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bts-scenarios-br · 9 months ago

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Reaction - Quando ele descobre que você está grávida

Personagens: leitora!feminina, membros

Genêro: fluff (leve angst mas nunca dura muito)

Cont. de Palavras: 3.9k

Avisos: se não estiverem prontes para ter um bebê, usem proteção besties

N/A: oi oi, como estão?? Tudo bem? Aproveitando feriado?? Pois eu estou. Me tornei uma jovem idosa esses últimos meses, então acordei muito mais cedo do que o necessário pra um feriado e fiquei tomando meu cafézinho enquanto terminava isso aqui. Falar pra vocês que gravidez é uma coisa muito louca pra mim. Parte de mim meio que acha encantador, e a outra parte tem mais medo disso do que de aranha (e eu tenho muito medo de aranha). Mas enfim, isso definitivamente não é algo com o que eu tenha que me preocupar no momento (uma vantagem eu tenho que ter em ser encalhada <3). Bom, vou parar de falar merda, espero que gostem, me desculpem por qualquer erro, e tenham uma boa leitura!

Kim Namjoon

O Namjoon acordou assustado no meio da noite, ouvindo um barulho estranho vindo do banheiro da suíte de vocês. Ele abriu os olhos ainda sonolento, se assustando quando passou a mão pelo seu lado da cama e não encontrando ninguém. Ele se levantou em um pulo, cambaleando em direção ao banheiro sem se importar em estar arrastando junto toda a roupa de cama de vocês.

“S/N?” Ele disse, entrando pelo banheiro e se desesperando quando te viu ajoelhada na frente do vaso sanitário, colocando pra fora tudo aquilo que tinha comido mais cedo. “Meu Deus Jagi, o que aconteceu? Você tá bem?”

Você claramente não conseguia falar naquele momento, então apenas acenou com a mão para que ele saísse do banheiro, o que obviamente não foi feito. Ao invés disso, ele se ajoelhou ao seu lado, segurando o seu cabelo para trás para que saísse do seu rosto, deixando de lado qualquer nojo que ele teria caso a pessoa vomitando na frente dele fosse qualquer outra pessoa que não você.

“Quer que eu pegue água? Ou um remédio pra enjoo? Quer qualquer coisa?” Você fez que não com o dedo conseguindo enfim parar de vomitar um pouco, suspirando um pouco antes de conseguir falar, fazendo ele já ficar em pé para providenciar seja lá o que você quisesse.

“Olha em cima da pia.” Você murmurou, com a voz fraca por conta da sua garganta estar sensível.

E assim ele o fez, percebendo só então o pequenino pedaço de plástico que estava na bancada. Ele fitou o objeto por alguns segundos, até conseguir raciocinar o que era, se dando conta instantes depois do que aqueles dois risquinhos vermelhos queriam dizer.

“S/A…” Ele disse, pegando o teste de gravidez na mão, e o observando em completo silêncio por alguns segundos.

Você conseguiu se levantar devagar, suspirando ao observá-lo em completo choque.

Acontece que, apesar da expressão de desespero estampada no rosto do Namjoon, ele estranhamente estava sentindo mais sentimentos bons do que ruins. Sim, ter um filho naquele momento seria um caos, e teriam que abrir mão de muitas coisas para poder criar a criança da forma adequada. Mas, ainda assim… a ideia de poder ter uma pequena família com você, onde poderiam se perder em seu próprio mundinho e serem apenas os pais do seu bebê, o agradava de uma forma inesperada.

“Eu sei que não planejamos isso, mas acho que podemos conversar sobre o que fazer a partir de agora…” Você disse, de repente, depois de ficar alguns segundos apenas o observando, e ainda um pouco fraca. “Mas pra ser sincera… acho que eu quero ficar com ele.” Disse, colocando a mão na barriga ainda discreta e olhando para baixo, mas mesmo assim conseguiu perceber quando ele te olhou perplexo.

“Mas é claro que vamos ficar com ele, S/N.” Ele falou, se aproximando e levantando o seu queixo para que o olhasse. “Sei que não estávamos sequer pensando nisso, mas… ainda assim é nosso bebê.” Ele sorriu, colocando a mão na sua barriga. “E agora eu não vejo a hora de começar oficialmente a nossa pequena família.”

“Sério?” Você perguntou, se tranquilizando um pouco. “Mas e o grupo? E os meninos?”

“Acredite em mim, acho que se bobear eles ficarão mais felizes que nós dois com um bebê.” Ele disse, e você riu de leve. “Vão transformar nosso filho no mascote do grupo, tenho certeza que a primeira oportunidade de colocarem a criança em um MV eles vão aceitar sem nem pensar duas vezes.” Dessa vez você riu mais alto.

“Vão debutar o bebê igual o Tae debutou o Tannie.” Completou, e foi a vez do Namjoon rir, contente por ver você tranquila.

“Vai dar tudo certo.” Ele falou, por fim, te dando um selinho. “Nós vamos fazer dar certo.”

Kim Seokjin

Você e o Jin estavam estranhamente quietos naquela noite, apesar de terem planejado passar uma noite romântica. Mas a verdade é que ambos estavam secretamente nervosos com o que fariam, e só não sabiam disso ainda.

“Ficou muito gostoso.” Você disse, quando terminou o prato que ele havia preparado. “Como sempre.” Sorriu, fazendo ele fazer o mesmo.

“Fico contente.” Ele respondeu, soltando um profundo suspiro logo em seguida. “Na verdade… eu não preparei o jantar por acaso.” Ele engoliu em seco, e você começou a sentir o seu coração palpitar.

Em seguida foi como se tudo estivesse acontecendo em camera lenta para você. Você observou com calma como o seu namorado se levantou da cadeira dele, e se ajoelhou ao seu lado, tirando uma pequena caixinha de veludo do bolso, e fazendo os seus olhos já marejarem.

“Eu acho que já estamos juntos por tempo o suficiente para eu saber que é você que eu quero ao meu lado para o resto da minha vida.” Ele abriu a caixinha com calma, mostrando um lindo e delicado anel com um diamante no topo. “Eu quero poder um dia construir uma família com você, S/N, e acho que agora é o momento de começarmos isso.” Com essas palavras, os seus olhos se arregalaram.

“O que você disse?” Perguntou, ansiosa. “Quer construir uma família comigo?”

“Sim…” Ele franziu o cenho, confuso, ainda parado na mesma posição. “É claro que sim, por que-”

Ele mal teve chance de terminar a frase, você se virou e pegou uma pequena caixa de papel que estava na cadeira ao seu lado, fazendo ele se perguntar como não tinha a notado.

“Abre…” Você disse, o entregando a caixinha e fazendo com que ele franzisse o cenho, mas te obedecesse.

Ao abrir a tampa, ele quase sentiu o coração dele sair pela boca. Ali dentro ele conseguiu ver uma pequena roupinha de bebê, como uma imitação de uma roupinhas de marinheiro, e em cima, dentro de um pequeno plastiquinho, havia o que ele logo reconheceu como um teste de gravidez. Mas não era apenas um teste aleatório, e sim um teste claramente positivo de gravidez.

“S/N…” Ele disse, sentindo a voz falhar pela emoção.

“Acho que nossa família já começou.” Você respondeu, igualmente emocionada.

Ele deixou a caixa de lado e se levantou com rapidez, te puxando para um abraço carinhoso e um beijo apaixonado logo em seguida.

“Ah, espera aí!” Você disse, se afastando e olhando em volta, procurando a caixinha com a sua aliança, que logo encontrou na mesa, e a pegou, a entregando ao Jin. “Você não terminou isso.”

Ele riu, te dando um selinho e ajoelhando novamente.

“S/N S/S” Ele disse, tentando permanecer estável enquanto dizia o seu nome completo. “Você quer fazer a honra de ser não apenas a mãe do meu filho, mas também a minha esposa, para o resto de nossas vidas?”

“Claro que sim!” Você disse, rindo enquanto ele colocava a aliança no seu dedo anexar e se levantava, te puxando para mais um beijo. “Eu te amo.” O disse, segurando o seu rosto.

“Eu também te amo.” Ele respondeu, sorrindo, e logo em seguida se abaixando no nível da sua barriga. “E amo você também…”

Min Yoongi

Você apenas levantou a cabeça do sofá quando ouviu a porta do seu apartamento abrir, observando o seu noivo entrar com tranquilidade.

“Eles tinham o remédio que eu pedi?” Você perguntou, vendo ele aproximar com uma acola maior do que precisava para apenas uma caixinha de remédios para enjoo.

“Sim, mas antes.” Ele mexeu um pouco dentro da sacola, tirando de lá uma caixa um pouco diferente. “Por que não faz isso antes, jagi?”

Você franziu o cenho, sem entender ao certo o que ele queria dizer, mas quando pegou a embalagem na mão e percebeu que se tratava de um teste de gravidez, revirou os olhos para ele.

“Eu não tô grávida, Yoongi.” Disse, ficando estranhamente chateada por ele ter pensado isso.

“Pro sim ou pro não, não custa nada você fazer o teste.” Ele rebateu, tranquilo. “Além disso o remédio que quer não é recomendado para gestantes, então a moça da farmácia disse que é bom fazer de qualquer forma por causa disso também.” Deu de ombros, e você acabou se dando por vencida, levantando do sofá bufando, mas indo até o banheiro para fazer o teste.

“Sorte sua que eu precisava fazer xixi de qualquer jeito.” Murmurou enquanto passava por ele, que soltou uma leve risada e foi atrás de você, o que fez você parar na porta do banheiro e o encarar de maneira engraçada. “Você não tá querendo entrar comigo, né?”

“Ué o que é que tem.” Ele rebateu. “Você vive fazendo xixi quando eu tomo banho, não vai ser nada demais.”

“Yoongi…” Você disse, soltando um suspiro sem nem mesmo saber ao certo como argumentar sobre aquilo. “Só me espera aqui, tá bom?”

E assim ele fez, ficando plantado do lado de fora da porta, a encarando firmemente enquanto você realizada o teste lá dentro. A verdade é que a tranquilidade do Yoongi era apenas fachada naquele momento, porque dentro dele estavam passando um turbilhão de sentimentos e pensamentos. E se você estivesse mesmo grávida, o que fariam? Se casariam logo como planejavam, ou iriam adiar para fazer a cerimônia depois que o bebê nascesse? E além disso, aquele apartamento era muito pequeno para vocês formarem uma família, teriam que se mudar, mas para onde?

Enfim, os pensamentos dele foram cortados quando ele viu a porta se abrir, alguns minutos depois, dando lugar à uma você visivelmente ansiosa.

“E então?” Ele perguntou, fazendo você dar de ombros.

“Ainda não sei, tem que esperar alguns minutos.” Apontou para o pequeno teste que estava na bancada da pia, e logo ambos estavam lado a lado na frente do mesmo, o observando de forma concentrada. “Você comprou desses mais caros, aparece na telinha.”

“É, eu quis pegar um que nos desse certeza.” Ele disse.

Depois de alguns minutos, que mais pareceram horas para vocês dois, o resultado enfim saiu.

“Grávida

6 semanas”

Nenhum de vocês ousou dizer qualquer coisa naquele instante, ambos ocupados demais digerindo a informação. Todas as preocupações anteriores se triplicaram na cabeça de ambos, mas, estranhamente, não estavam decepcionados.

“Nós… vamos ter um filho.” Ele foi o primeiro a falar alguma, olhando para você com um sorriso preocupado no rosto, e te puxando para um abraço amoroso. “Como você se sente?” Perguntou quando se soltaram.

“Sinceramente?” Você disse, sorrindo também. “Eu acho que eu estou feliz.” E foram com essas suas últimas e simples palavras que todas as preocupações do Yoongi foram embora, ao menos temporiamente.

“Isso é tudo que eu preciso saber.” Ele disse, sorrindo mais uma vez e te puxando, dessa vez para um beijo delicado.

Jung Hoseok

“Jagi, tá tudo bem?” O Hobi perguntou pra você, que olhava de forma nervosa para o seu celular.

“Não sei…” Você disse. “Minha menstruação está atrasada.” Levantou o olhar para ele. “Meus ciclos são sempre bem regulares, e se… ?”

“Será?” Ele disse, de repente elétrico, se sentando na cama e já tirando as cobertas de cima dele. “Quer que eu vá na farmácia comprar um teste?” Ele nem mesmo te deu tempo de responder, já se levantando e indo até o armário para pegar uma roupa. “Eu vou lá, será que posso pegar qualquer um? Ou tem um melhor? Quer que eu ligue pra minha irmã e pergunte?”

“Hobi, não, calma.” Você disse, rindo um pouco do desespero dele. “Pode ser estranho se alguém te ver comprando um teste de gravidez… não acha melhor pedirmos para entregarem ou algo assim?”

“Você tá certa, faz sentido…” Ele disse, se acalmando um pouco.

Por mais que ainda mal tivessem a resposta, algo dentro de vocês já estava lhes dizendo que você estava, de fato, grávida. Mas ainda assim foram rápidos em pedir o teste, e em cerca de meia hora receberam ouviram o interfone tocar, lhes avisando que a encomenda havia chegado.

“Quer que eu fique com você?” Ele perguntou, enquanto você entrava no banheiro.

“Não… abro a porta pra você assim que terminar, okay?” O falou, com um sorrido cúmplice, e ele concordou com a cabeça, lhe dando um beijo suave antes de entrar para o banheiro.

E dito e feito, em poucos minutos você abriu a porta para ele entrar, se sentando no chão do banheiro logo em seguida, e sendo seguida por ele. Ambos ficaram em silêncio por alguns instantes, mas você deitou com a sua cabeça no ombro dele, que passou o braço pelos seus ombros e se aproximou de você para que ficasse mais confortável.

“Sabe, eu não estava esperando ter um filho agora…” Ele começou a falar, fazendo com que você levantasse a cabeça para poder olhá-lo. “Mas eu meio que não odeio a ideia.” Você riu, e ele logo lhe acompanhou. “Sempre sonhei em um dia ter uma família com você, e se o universo acha que esse é o momento certo, então fico muito feliz em começar agora.” Você sorriu também, beijando a bochecha dele de leve.

“Eu digo o mesmo.” Ele sorriu para você de forma doce. “Não esperava ficar grávida assim tão cedo… mas acho que eu até gosto da ideia.” Você colocou a mão na barriga, fazendo ele te fitar com um olhar apaixonado. “Mas a gente nem sabe se eu tô mesmo grávida!” Disse, de repente se lembrando do teste em cima da pia, e se levantando, sendo seguida pelo Hoseok.

“E então?” Ele disse, passando a mão pela sua cintura e olhando sobre o seu ombro.

“Deu positivo…” Você disse, se virando para ele e levantando o teste para que ele conseguisse ver os dois risquinhos. “Nós vamos ter um bebê.” Falou, sorrindo, e ele fez o mesmo, te abraçando pela cintura mais uma vez e te dando um beijo suave, mas apaixonado.

Park Jimin

O Jimin estava aflito do seu lado no quarto de hospital, muito mais preocupado do que o necessário para o que você estava sentindo.

“Eu já disse que tô bem, Jimin…” Você falou, suspirando. “Só passei mal, deve ter sido por causa do calor ou algo assim.”

“Você quase desmaiou, o seu nariz começou a sangrar e ainda vomitou, jagi.” Ele disse, te olhando indignado, e você estava prestes a dizer que não era nada demais, mas foi interrompida pela médica que entrou pela porta.

“Okay, acho que já sabemos o que aconteceu com você, S/N.” Ela disse, com um sorriso calmante no rosto. “Sobre o sangramento no nariz, foi mesmo provavelmente por conta do tempo, o seu corpo parece não ter reagido bem com ele.” Você olhou para o seu namorado ao seu lado, contente pela medica ter reforçado o seu palpite.

“E o resto?” Ele perguntou, ignorando o seu olhar orgulhoso.

“Bom, sobre o resto…” Ele olhou para a prancheta que carregava, tirando de lá um papel e lhe entregando. “Acho que podem ver por si mesmos.”

Vocês dois ficaram meio confusos, mas assentiram e pegaram o que parecia ser os resultados médicos de algo. Levou alguns segundos para entenderem do que se tratava, mas logo raciocinaram o que era ao lerem as palavras “gravidez” e “positivo”.

“Isso é…?” Você falou, olhando assustada para a médica, que apenas sorriu e assentiu em resposta.

“Sempre fazemos o exame de sangue como procedimento em casos como o seu.” Ela explicou. “Então parabéns, vocês serão papais!”

Você e o Jimin ainda estavam em choque, o que fez a médica rir e se retirar do quarto, dizendo que iria lhes dar privacidade para assimilar as notícias.

“Eu… to grávida?” Você questionou, em choque, e o Jimin enfim te olhou.

“É.” Ele enfim quebrou a expressão assutada, dando uma leve risada. “Acho que vamos ter um filho, Jagi…”

“É.” Repetiu ele, o olhando com um sorriso no rosto. “É estranho eu meio que ter gostado da notícia?”

“Se for, somos dois estranhos então.” Ele deu de ombros, soltando uma risada contente e genuína. “Nós vamos ter um bebê!” Ele falou, empolgado. “Eu vou ser papai!” Você também riu, um pouco incerta do seu futuro, mas ainda assim calma e com o coração quentinho pelo seu companheiro ter aparentemente ficado tão feliz quanto você.

Kim Taehyung

“Okay, terminei o último.” Você disse, suspirando e se jogando ao lado dele na cama. “Estão lá na pia, daqui uns minutos vamos conferir.” Ele concordou com a cabeça, deixando o celular dele de lado.

“Você fez quantos testes, mesmo?” Ele perguntou, se ajeitando na cama e te puxando para perto.

“Sete.” Respondeu, se aninhando no peito dele, e sentindo ele dar uma leve risada, fazendo você se juntar à ele. “Te prometo que não foi de propósito.”

“Deve ser o destino então.” Ele respondeu, dando um beijo no topo da sua cabeça.

Você e o Tae estavam tentando ter filho há já alguns meses, para falar a verdade, mas não tinham tido sucesso até o momento. Haviam até mesmo ido ao médico para verem se tinham qualquer problema que estivesse os atrapalhando, mas aparentemente estava tudo sob controle. Ainda assim, não podiam deixar de lado o medo de não conseguirem cumprir o que era um dos maiores sonhos de vocês dois, que é poder construir uma família juntos.

“E se eu não conseguir engravidar, Tae?” Você disse, de repente, fazendo ele afastar um pouco a cabeça e te olhar.

“Podemos continuar tentando por quanto tempo desejar jagi.” Ele disse. “E se um dia se cansar, podemos sempre tentar começar a nossa família de outro jeito.” Foi sua vez de levantar a cabeça e o olhar. “Podemos sempre adotar.” Ele deu de ombros. “Tenho certeza que faria qualquer criança se apaixonar por você, não seria difícil encontrarmos alguma perfeita para sermos os pais.”

Você sorriu de forma doce, se inclinando e lhe dando um leve selinho.

“Se tem alguém aqui que conquistaria qualquer criança nesse mundo, esse alguém é você.” Você respondeu, recebendo um lindo sorriso como resposta.

Vocês ficaram por mais um bom tempo falando sobre o futuro e as diferentes possibilidades que ele lhes guardava, até mesmo se esquecendo dos testes de gravidez. Foi apenas depois de quase uma hora de conversa que você se lembrou do que é que estavam esperando, e logo vocês dois tinham se levantado em um pulo para irem conferir os testes.

“Eu começo dessa ponta, e você dessa.” Você falou, apontando para a fileira de testes de gravidez que tinha na sua frente, recebendo um aceno de cabeça do Taehyung como resposta.

E assim vocês fizeram, observando calmamente cada um dos pequenos testes que tinham em sua frente, sentindo o coração de vocês disparar mais e mais com cada um. Quando chegaram no teste que estava no meio, o último, ficaram alguns poucos segundos observando os dois risquinhos nele, até se olharem, ambos com lágrimas nos olhos.

“Todos deram positivo.” Vocês falaram em uníssono.

Foi questão de segundos para vocês dois estarem quase gritando de animação. O Tae foi rápido em te puxar para um abraço apertado e cheio de sentimento.

“Vamos ser pais!” Ele falou, com um sorriso enorme no rosto, se afastando e te olhando de forma apaixonada, logo se ajoelhando para ficar na altura da sua barriga. “Eu prometo pra você que vamos ser os melhores pais do mundo, bebê.” Você riu, observando ele falar com a sua barriga. “Sei que sua mãe vai ser a sua favorita de qualquer jeito porque ela é incrível, mas vou me esforçar bastante também, eu prometo.”

Jeon Jungkook

“Jagi?” O Jungkook disse, tirando a sua atenção do livro que estava lendo e fazendo com que olhasse para ele. “Você está se sentindo bem?”

“Acho que sim.” Respondeu, franzindo o cenho. “Por que?” Você percebeu ele ficar meio envergonhado com a pergunta, sem saber ao certo como te responder.

“Você tá meio cansada esses dias…” Ele começou a falar, e você fechou o seu livro, o deixando de lado e dando total atenção ao seu namorado. “Às vezes fica enjoada fácil, e também fica acordando a noite inteira para ir ao banheiro.” Você ficou ainda mais confusa, e ele ainda mais envergonhado. “E além disso, sua menstruação está atrasada…”

“Como você sabe disso?” Perguntou, mais surpresa do que qualquer outra coisa.

“Eu tenho um aplicativo pra conferir seu ciclo no seu celular.” Você o olhou, sendo pega de surpresa por aquela informação. “É pra eu saber quando vai estar de TPM e não brigar com você por ser grossa…” Falou, de forma meio embolada, fazendo você revirar os olhos.

“De qualquer maneira.” Você falou, tentando ignorar o fato de ele ter te chamado de grossa. “O que quer dizer com tudo isso?”

“Fadiga, náuseas, fazendo muito xixi, menstruação atrasada…” Ele falou, começando a arregalar os olhos. “São todos sintomas de gravidez, S/N!”

“Não, eu não tô grávida!” Disse, arregalando os olhos tanto quanto ele. “E desde quando você sabe tanto assim?” Franziu o cenho, fazendo ele ficar envergonhado.

“Eu pesquisei quando vi que seu ciclo atrasou…” Ele murmurou. “Mas não vamos mudar de assunto!”

“Eu não posso estar grávida, Kook, eu tomo a pílula!” Disse, tentando mais convencer a si própria do que a ele.

“Sabe que ela não é 100% eficaz, jagi.” Ele suspirou, pegando na sua mão e te olhando. “O que vai fazer hoje?”

“Nada, ia só descansar e arrumar umas coisas em casa…” Disse. “Por que?”

“Vamos fazer um exame de sangue para saber se está grávida.” Disse, se levantando.

“De sangue?” Perguntou, indignada. “Por que não fazemos um de farmácia?”

“O de sangue vai nos dar mais certeza.” Ele deu de ombros, já indo até o quarto para se trocar, e você não teve muita opção além de ceder para ele.

Mais tarde, vocês dois estavam jogados no sofá, com a TV rodando alguma série aleatória que nenhum de vocês estava prestando atenção. Você tinha feito o exame mais cedo naquele dia, e a equipe da clínica disse que até o final do dia você teria o resultado enviado para o seu e-mail.

“Nada ainda?” O Jungkook perguntou, te olhando ansiosos enquanto você conferia o seu celular, mas recebeu apenas uma negação com a sua cabeça como resposta.

“Kook…” Você disse, e ele te olhou. “O que vamos fazer se eu estiver mesmo grávida?”

“Como assim?” Ele franziu o cenho, se aproximando de você e te puxando para que se encostasse no peito dele.

“Isso pode prejudicar a sua carreira…” Murmurou, amuada. “Se as pessoas já ficaram indignadas quando dissemos que vamos nos casar, imagina se descobrem que vamos ter um filho!”

“Jagi…” Ele disse, de forma doce. “Ás vezes eu acho que você não faz a menor ideia do quanto eu te amo.” Você levantou a cabeça, fazendo um leve biquinho com os lábios que ele não teve outra escolha além de beijar. “Se o meu amor por você já é absurdo, imagina por um bebê nosso…” Você começou a se acalmar um pouco, percebendo que talvez um filho não fosse o fim do mundo. “Ele vai ser o fruto do nosso amor, e não tem nada que vai poder estragar isso pra mim.”

Você sorriu, se inclinando para o beijar no mesmo instante em que ouviram uma notificação vinda do seu celular. Vocês logo se agitaram, e você pegou o seu celular, o desbloqueando e indo até o seu e-mail, confirmando o que já esperavam.

“Eu tô grávida.” Disse, com um misto de emoções dentro de você, mas um sorriso no rosto, que apenas cresceu quando olhou para o seu noivo e viu que ele estava à beira das lágrimas. “Meu Deus Kook, não precisa chorar!” Disse, apesar de estar sentindo a emoção chegar para si mesma.

“São lágrimas de felicidade.” Ele murmurou, enquanto você o espremia em um abraço. “De muita felicidade.” Ele disse uma última vez antes de te puxar para um beijo apaixonado.

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namfinessed · 5 months ago

Text

go around - j.hs. (preview)

genre: angst, fluff (childhoodcrush! brother'sbestfriend!) (wc)

summary: to everyone else, he was the sun but to you, he was always the moon, the light you grabbed onto when you could see nothing.

release date: tbd (reply if you want to be added to the taglist!)

hoseok was fourteen years old when it happened.

you were ten.

and he had thought he was too cool for you then.

you were sitting on the other side of the mary-go-round to him, it was the last but one day of the summer camp you were part of, and you looked at him as if he hung the moon in the sky.

and hoseok felt as high as the moon that night.

but he was also sick to his stomach.

"i like you," you didn't look at him as you said but hoseok could feel that you meant it, that it took a lot for you to get on that mary-go-round with him, spin with him, build the moon in his eyes and then say the words that he believed were stuck in your throat since when you first saw him.

he knew that your brother wouldn't like that you were saying this.

but he knew, even as a kid, that this was the most honest thing anyone's ever told him.

but he was so cool and so close to your brother, who would kill him if hoseok said anything back.

so, he didn't say anything back.

hoseok pursed his lips and looked away. he swears that, to this day, the tears shining in his eyes were nerves and not the frutsration that came with not being able to hold you to the moon too.

the silent rejection didn't yet hit your soft eyes and bare heart.

you kept looking at him, hands gripping the handles so tight that your knuckles changed shades between white and pink and your cheeks puffed, excited and nervous breathes still left your lips.

and hoseok didn't want to be cool for a second there, he didn't want to care about your brother at all, maybe he would just let you take him for a bit, just a bit.

but in your thin eyebrows, he saw your brother.

in your veiny hands, he saw your brother.

in your coily, curly hair, he saw your brother.

so, he got off the mary-go-round, he walked away quickly, not pausing to look at you and he sniffed his tears away, he hugged his jacket closer to his body.

tomorrow, he would be fine.

tomorrow, no one would look at him like he was the moon and he would be okay with it.

but hoseok turned around.

the biggest mistake of his life.

the moon you thought him to be, cast a glow on the tears gathering on your chin and his heart wrenched.

the next day, your brother, his best friend, died.

and you never spoke a word to hoseok again.

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inkjam-moon · 3 months ago

Note

In honor of Hobi's discharge, bathroom encounter at a Halloween party? Any idea you'd have around that's perfect

A/N:LMAO I don't know if this even makes szense i had to much to drink so enjoyyyyyy

“Oh my god, that’s so funny!” Jiyeon cackles as the guy next to her whispers what you can only assume are jokes in her ear.

You take another sip of whatever concoction is in your cup before you hear what sounds like a very familiar voice from behind you. Your ears perk up as you swivel your head, looking around for the source and sure enough, after a few moments of scanning the room you spot him dressed as a basketball player, nearly spitting out your drink as you do.

Hoseok?

You thought he was still away at his military service. Did that end already? Shit. You grab Jiyeon’s arm and abruptly tug her away from her new friend, dragging her to the hallway out of sight.

“Y/N, what the hell?” She squeaks.

“Unnie, he’s back.” You state, eyes wide in terror.

“Who?”

“Hoseok.”

Jiyeon’s eyes widen. “There’s no way.” You nod your head in his direction and she turns to look. “Oh shit.” She turns back to you. “Do… Do you want to leave?”

You immediately shake your head no, knowing how much fun she’s having. “I think… I think I'm just going to run to the bathroom real quick and clear my head so I don't do anything stupid.”

“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.” She rubs your arm in an attempt to comfort you and you nod before turning and heading down the hallway to the bathroom.

You enter the small confines of the room and shut and lock the door. You grip the counter tightly, looking down at the sink as you try to breathe. He’s back. You can’t believe he’s back just when you thought you were finally rid of him.

Truth be told, you had the biggest crush on him. You were close friends once upon a time, but you let your feelings get in the way of the friendship around the time he found out he was leaving for his military service. You were told by his friend and you were heartbroken that he didn’t tell you himself. The two of you had begun seeing less and less of each other as you kept canceling plans, or blowing him off because you thought he didn’t care enough about you to even tell you he was leaving. The day he left you went to see him with the rest of your friends and the two of you got into a huge argument where you ended up slapping him across the face when he asked “Why do you even care if I leave, it’s not like you want to see me anymore”.

You haven’t seen or contacted each other since.

But now he’s back. And of course he’s at the halloween party too. You sigh heavily as you look at yourself in the mirror. You turn on the cold water and flick a few droplets in your face to help calm you down. You’re just going to have to avoid him. Yep that’s what you’re going to do. And if he sees you? At least you look sexy as hell. He can eat his heart out.

You check your makeup in the mirror before standing up and adjusting your nurse costume, letting a little more cleavage show. You do a once over one more time before unlocking the door and opening to find someone about to knock on the other side. You lock eyes with the only person you don’t want to see.

“Y/N-ah…”

“Hobi…”

You both just stand there staring at each other for a solid minute, searching each other’s faces for something before Hoseok quickly pushes you back into the bathroom with him and locks the door behind him.

“I-I’ve been looking for you.” He mumbles. “I saw Jiyeon.”

“Why… Why were you looking for me?” You question, genuinely confused.

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Hoseok sighs. “Listen… I know things were, well, rough when I was leaving. I really wanted to apologize.”

You scoff. “Apologize? Hoseok, it's been a year. I’m over it.” He raises his eyebrows at you and you look away, both of you know you’re lying.

“Look, Joon told me why you were so upset with me and now I understand what happened.”

“Right.” You roll your eyes, hopping up to sit on the counter.

“Forgive me or not Y/N, I need you to know that I was going to tell you.”

“You think I was upset because you didn’t tell me your service was starting?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “I… I thought so yeah.”

“That was such a small part of it.” You shake your head.

“What was it then?”

“Ugh, Hoseok I was-” You sigh, dragging your hands over your face. “I liked you, okay? I had the biggest crush on you and you didn’t feel the same way. When you didn’t tell me you were leaving, it kind of just solidified that for me, so by distancing myself from you I thought I was doing you a favor… And then you thought I didn't want to see you anymore? Are you kidding? I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do with myself when you left.” You admit, devastated to finally tell him the truth.

He raises his hand to his cheek as if feeling the true sting of your slap for the first time. “So we haven’t talked in a year because of a misunderstanding?”

You nod, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship… and by doing that … I ruined our friendship.”

“I thought you just hated me.”

“Hobi, I could never hate you.” You stare down at your lap until you feel a hand tilting your chin back up. You meet Hoseok’s gaze for only a second before he leans forward and presses his lips against yours. You pull away after only a few seconds, your eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

He chuckles, his thumb brushing your chin. “Y/N-ah… don’t you know I’m crazy about you?”

“W-what?”

“I was going to tell you the same night I was going to tell you I was leaving, but someone told you first, and then you kept blowing me off; you never gave me the chance. And then that fight.”

“Hoseok, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head in amazement, giggling a bit at the fact that it really was just a big misunderstanding.

He shrugs, brushing your hair out of your face. “We were both really dumb, huh?”

“So dumb.”

And with that his lips are back on yours. You let yourself get lost in the feeling this time, loving the way his mouth seems to caress yours so gently and yet so desperately at the same time. He stands between your legs and wastes no time in prodding at your lips with his tongue. You accept his request, letting his tongue tangle with yours as your hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer, having waited so long for this moment you never thought would happen.

It isn’t long before you feel something pressing against your center and you quickly slip a hand down, cupping his hardening length over his shorts as your own arousal begins to soak your panties.

“Y/N-ah, what-?” He gasps at the touch.

“I need you inside me.” You whine, tugging at his waistband.

“N-now? You don’t want to wai-”

“I don’t want to wait for you any longer.” You insist, finally managing to slip his shorts down his legs.

“Shit that’s hot.” He curses, dropping his boxers to the floor as well. You watch his thick length bounce as he pulls you up to the edge of the counter, slipping one of his hands under your costume and pulling your underwear to the side before scooting as close to you as he can. His cock presses against your core and your body flashes with heat. “Are you sure about this?”

You nod with a whimper. “Please.”

WIth one hand still holding your panties to the side, and the other gripping your waist, he presses his hips forward. You slide a hand down between the two of you to guide him to the right place, and you feel his tip slip past your walls. A low moan leaves your mouth as he stretches you open at an agonizingly slow pace. A slow burn builds between your thighs as he fills you completely, your head falling back as he finally stills.

Your core pulses around him and you feel his lips on your neck, placing light kisses across the exposed expanse of skin. He grunts when you contract particularly hard around him and he takes that as the sign to start moving. His pace is slow at first, almost unbearably so as he takes his time, making sure to feel the entirety of your body reacting to him.

“H-Hobi…” You gasp, begging him to move faster. He seems to get the message as his hips pick up the pace, rocking into you faster and faster until the bathroom is filled only with lewd squelching sounds from between your legs, and the rapid, heavy breathing of you both.

After a few minutes of this he seemingly grows tired of smacking into the sink and slips out of you. Before you can protest he helps you down off the counter and spins you around, bending you over the counter and yanking your underwear down just enough before immediately slipping back into your entrance, both of you groaning at the feeling.

“God, how are you tighter than you were five seconds ago?” He growls.

You can only whimper in response, gripping the counter as Hoseok begins to slam into you, his hips smacking harshly against your ass, the sound echoing around the room. He feels so good, hitting all the right spots inside you that you start seeing stars. The feeling of him inside you is the only thing you can focus on as the feeling sitting low in your abdomen begins to swirl and bend with malicious intent.

“Hobi I’m- fuck.. I’m gonna cum.” You whine in warning, the sensation between your legs just too good.

“Shit.” He swears, his grip tightening on your hips. You chance a glance in the mirror to see his eyes focused on the spot where you’re joined together, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his brown as he fucks you oh so deliciously.

The sight alone is enough to snap the coil of your orgasm, slapping a hand over your mouth as you cry out, your core tightening relentlessly around Hoseok’s length as colors explode behind your eyelids. It’s not much longer before Hoseok groans low in his chest, his hips faltering before filling you to the hilt. His grip bruises your hips as he cums, his release hot inside you as he milks the feeling. His hands move to rub your back soothingly, staying seated inside you for a long moment.

“Fuck… I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He hisses before slowly pulling out of you.

As your senses return to you, you feel Hoseok’s release drip out of your center, but that's not the only thing you feel. You keep your hand clamped over your mouth, small whines of overstimulation slipping out as Hoseok bends down and slips his tongue into your folds, effectively cleaning up the mess he made as you try not to make a sound, your legs shaking from the feeling when his tongue glides across your clit.

“Hobi, please~” You beg, trying to pull yourself away from the onslaught of his mouth. When he deems you clean enough, Hoseok pulls your panties back into place and helps you stand, his arm catching your waist when your legs buckle.

“You taste good.” He states like it’s a casual thing. “I should’ve done that first.”

“Do you think anyone heard us?” You ask, pulling your costume back into place as Hoseok cleans himself up and then does the same.

He shakes his head. “Nah, we were quiet.” He pulls you to him and places one last kiss against your lips before unlocking the bathroom door and opening it only to find several questioning faces on the other side, including that of Jiyeon.

“Well,” She smirks wildly at the sight of you two on the other side of the door. “I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t go home.”

#drunk drabble #hoseok drabble bts smut #bts scenarios #jung hoseok #bts hoseok #j hope #bts j hope #j hope x reader #hoseok x reader #hoseok smut #j hope smut #j hope drabble #inkjam-moon #drabble request #bts drabble #ask ink #inks post #inks return

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giddyfatherchris · 1 year ago

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Bunny threat

Pairing: bts x gn!reader (platonic)

Genre: crack? comedy? all good stuff haha

Warnings: None

Word count: 820

Requests: Open for stray kids and bts!

A/n: okay so funny thing. I wrote this a billion years ago, and forgot it existed (tbh i also forgot i had this account lol). Since i want to bring this page back to life i thought i could update the original version (and correct some grammar mistakes lol) and bring it back as my first official post. So here we go! I hope you like it :))

*gif is not mine

“Stop practicing and come eat!” shouted Jin for the fifth time.

You were all at the studio rehearsing a few new choreos for an upcoming performance. It was now 8:00 pm, and the delivery guy just came in with his precious cargo. As soon as the good smell of the local Korean meals filtered into the room, your seven friends instantly stopped what they were doing to rush on the food like starved men.

“Y/N! Come before Taehyung eats everything!” urged Yoongi. You faintly heard him scold his younger brother, as he was probably trying to steal said food.

“Won’t be long. Just let me get this last move right!”

Still in the dance studio part of the room, you just couldn’t be satisfied with the execution of a certain move. It wasn’t precise enough, and you couldn’t eat without having this part right. It would be a defining moment in this new choreo you created for the boys, so you had to get it right.

Minutes passed, bowls emptied themselves, and you still hadn’t eaten anything.

“Y/N, stop it now. Too much is like not enough!” advised Joon with his father-like tone. His concern and the smell of the delicious food almost made you stop, but you took a deep breath to focus and went back to dancing without a word.

“Tae has gotten to the bowl of samgyeopsal!” tried J-Hope to make you rush in to get your hands on your favorite dish.

“Mmmmmm, SO GOOD!” added the boy while making huge slurping sounds, though you weren’t sure if those disgusted you more than they made you envy him.

They sat still, waiting to see if you would stop your tireless rehearsing, but you were so intent on doing it perfectly that it felt like they didn’t even exist.

“They really won’t come to eat.” pouted Jimin while he looked at Namjoon with the saddest puppy eyes.

“Makes me think of someone,” mumbled Yoongi, not without earning an annoyed sigh from the talented dancer.

“Alright, Jungkook, I think we need to take drastic measures.” sighed Joonie, already wincing at the idea of your reaction.

The youngest boy simply nodded, finished his bite, and headed out of the little room without saying a word. The other boys stared at the door, waiting for what was coming. It started with the music stopping abruptly, then you whining, “Oh please, one last time! I was starting to get it. AH JUNGKOOK LET ME DOWN! JEON JEONGGUK!” Some laughed, but they all winced when you started screaming like a lunatic. Jungkook entered the room with you thrown over his shoulder, screaming and whacking his back. He dropped you on a chair and went to his plate with the most unbothered expression. You opened your mouth to start whining again, but Jimin and Tae were faster and stopped you by dropping a steaming portion on your plate.

“Eat. You don’t want to overwork yourself, don’t you?” encouraged Jimin with a caring look. You reluctantly looked at the bowl he nudged in front of you.

“And if you faint, you will forget all the progress you have made, and you will be back to step one,” mocked Yoongi with his nose still in his plate. You rolled your eyes at his remark but still felt a pang of stress from the thought.

“Funny, but seriously," You started getting up. "One more time, and I’ll-”

You were cut short by a pretty mad Jungkook as he reached for your wrist across the table.

“If you get up one more time before you’ve eaten all of this goddamn plate. I will tie you down to this chair and feed you each bite until you’re done, and I won’t be gentle this time.”

He uttered his threat in a growl, and just at the thought you gave up, suddenly plopping down on your chair. Once he felt your body relaxing he let go of your hand, still looking at you, then at the bowl until you ate four big spoonfuls of the dish. Only then did he focus again on his own, going back to being the cute little bunny he was. All the other members stared silently at you guys, too shocked to say a word. Until they exploded in laughter, you and Jungkook quickly joining in. The bantering followed right after, the atmosphere finally lightening up.

“Don’t be upset Y/N. We just want you to be okay and healthy, but don’t worry we'll help you with the choreo,” assured Jimin as he stood up, finished with his plate, and encouraged you to follow through.

“Thank you, but… I still have some food left, and I don’t want Jungkook to put his threat into execution.”

They all laughed at your comment as the brown-eyed boy on the other side of the table shot you a huge bunny-like smile.

#bts x reader #namjoon x reader #yoongi x reader #j hope x reader #jin x reader #jimin x reader #taehying x reader #jungkook x reader #bts #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts comfort #bts fic #bts scenarios #ilya writes

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taeandpuppies · 1 year ago

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What your cameraroll looks like if you're dating Jung Hoseok

#bts imagines #jhope #hoseok #jhope imagine #jhope fluff #bts #jhope scenarios #bts scenario #jung hoseok #j hope #jhope boyfriend #bts fluff

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bluelavendre · 9 days ago

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Dancing In Harmony

J-Hope x Ballerina Reader

Y/N had always lived by the grace of classical movements, her life an elegant blend of pliés, pirouettes, and arabesques. The ballet studio, with its faint aroma of resin and the faint hum of Tchaikovsky, was her sanctuary.

Jung Hoseok, or J-Hope as he was known in the underground dance world, was the polar opposite. The booming basslines of hip-hop tracks were his heartbeat, and the graffiti-adorned streets of Seoul were his stage. His movements were raw, explosive, and brimming with energy.

Their worlds collided when the city announced a dance showcase that paired performers from different genres to create a unique fusion piece. Y/N was hesitant; the thought of mixing her delicate ballet with the ruggedness of hip-hop felt unnatural. J-Hope, on the other hand, saw it as an exciting challenge.

The first rehearsal was rocky. Y/N’s precise movements clashed with Hoseok’s freestyle energy.

“You have to loosen up,” Hoseok teased, watching her stiff attempt at popping.

“And you need to find some structure,” she countered, as his leap into an improvised move missed the planned timing.

But as the weeks passed, they began to understand each other. Y/N taught Hoseok the discipline of controlled movement, while he helped her embrace the freedom of spontaneity. They spent late nights in the studio, laughing as they failed lifts, cheering when they nailed sequences, and bonding over shared exhaustion.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session, they found themselves sitting on the studio floor, sharing snacks and stories. Hoseok admired Y/N’s dedication to her craft, while she was in awe of his boundless creativity.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft, “I never thought ballet could be...beautiful like this. You make it look effortless.”

“And I never thought hip-hop could tell a story,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But you pour your soul into it. That’s inspiring.”

Their chemistry wasn’t just evident offstage—it transformed their performance. On the night of the showcase, the crowd was mesmerized by their routine. Hoseok’s powerful pops complemented Y/N’s graceful arabesques. When the final note of the music faded, they stood together, hands clasped, breaths heavy, basking in the audience's thunderous applause.

Backstage, Hoseok turned to Y/N, his eyes glowing with excitement.

“We should keep doing this,” he said.

“You mean...work together?”

“Yeah,” he said, his grin playful yet sincere. “But only if you can handle me outdancing you.”

Y/N laughed, her heart warm. “We’ll see about that, J-Hope.”

And so, their partnership blossomed—two dancers from different worlds, finding harmony in the rhythm of their shared passion.

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J-Hope POV

The sound of people echoed through my ears, a steady hum of chatter mixed with the occasional thump of sneakers hitting the studio floor. My heart raced, my palms slick with nervous sweat. As a 16-year-old stepping into the world of hip hop, I felt like I was staring at a blank canvas, waiting for my first brushstroke.

They told me I had potential—that I could be an amazing dancer. And sure, I could bust out a few moves that made people cheer. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t there yet. There was so much more I wanted to learn, so much more I wanted to express. Dancing wasn’t just movement to me—it was my voice, my story.

I tightened my laces and scanned the room. The studio was alive with energy—people practicing their routines, laughter bouncing off the mirrors, music shaking the walls. It was intimidating, but it was also thrilling. This was the kind of environment where growth happened.

“Jung Hoseok, right?”

I turned to see a man in his late twenties, his stance relaxed but his gaze sharp. He was one of the mentors overseeing today’s session.

“Yes, sir.” I bowed slightly, trying to keep my nerves in check.

He gave me a nod and crossed his arms. “I’ve seen your moves. You’ve got rhythm, but you’re playing it too safe. If you want to stand out, you need to let loose. Stop thinking so much.”

I blinked. Stop thinking? That felt impossible. My mind was always racing—counting beats, analyzing steps, worrying if I looked stupid.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said with a small smirk, as if reading my thoughts. “Just trust yourself. Dance isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection.”

His words lingered as I moved to the corner of the studio to warm up. I started with some basic footwork, trying to let the music guide me instead of overthinking every step. Slowly, the tension in my shoulders eased, and I began to lose myself in the rhythm.

As the session progressed, I noticed the way the other dancers moved—so raw, so unapologetically themselves. It was inspiring, but it also made me question if I belonged here.

Then, the music shifted. A heavy beat dropped, and something inside me clicked. Without hesitation, I stepped into the center of the room and let my body take over. I hit the floor with power and precision, popping and locking with a confidence I didn’t know I had.

The room erupted into cheers, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. For the first time, I wasn’t just a kid trying to keep up. I was a dancer, holding my own in a space filled with talent and passion.

As the session wrapped up, I found myself grinning. This was just the beginning, but I knew one thing for sure—I was ready to pour my heart into this blank canvas and paint something unforgettable.

J-Hope POV

“JUNG HOSEOK!!”

I turned to see Jimin bounding toward me, a wide grin plastered across his face. Jimin was a friend from school—a year younger but just as passionate about dance as I was. The only difference? While I lived and breathed hip hop, Jimin was all about contemporary ballet. Fancy turns, graceful leaps, and a lot of elegance—totally opposite of my style.

“Jiminshii!” I called back, opening my arms for our signature bro hug. We slapped each other’s backs like we hadn’t seen each other in years, even though we’d hung out just a couple of days ago.

“You were so cool, Hobi hyung! You did this move—like that—it was awesome!” Jimin started imitating my moves, his arms jerking wildly and his face scrunched in exaggerated focus.

I couldn’t hold back my laugh. “That was nothing, bro,” I said, playfully shoving his shoulder.

“Nothing? Are you kidding?” Jimin’s eyes widened. “You had the whole room hyped! Seriously, hyung, you’re going to be famous one day.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep hyping me up,” I teased, though his words made my chest swell with pride. Jimin always had a way of making me feel like I was capable of anything, even on days when I doubted myself.

Jimin leaned against the wall, still catching his breath from his exaggerated performance of my moves. “You know,” he started, a little more seriously, “I wish I could move like you sometimes. Contemporary ballet is all about being poised and controlled, but you—you’re so free. It’s like the music just takes over your body.”

“Free, huh?” I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking about what my mentor had said earlier about letting go and trusting myself. “It’s not always easy, you know. Sometimes I overthink everything—like, am I hitting the beat right? Do I look stiff? Am I good enough to be here?”

Jimin tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “We all think like that sometimes. Even when I’m on stage, there’s a little voice in my head saying, ‘Don’t mess up.’ But hyung, when you’re dancing, it doesn’t look like you’re thinking at all. It looks like you’re feeling. That’s what makes you amazing.”

I let his words sink in, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks, Jimin-ah. You always know what to say, huh?”

He grinned cheekily. “Of course, I do. That’s why I’m your number-one fan.”

We both laughed, and for a moment, the nerves from earlier felt like a distant memory. Jimin’s energy was contagious, and I couldn’t help but feel grateful for his support.

“Come on,” I said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s grab some food. I’m starving, and I know you’re not leaving until you tell me about your new fancy ballet routine.”

“Deal,” Jimin said, his eyes sparkling. “But only if you show me how to pop like you do.”

“Challenge accepted,” I said with a grin, already planning how I was going to make Jimin look completely ridiculous attempting hip hop.

And just like that, the day ended on a high note—with laughter, friendship, and the realization that I wasn’t alone in this journey.

Y/N POV

Ballet. An elegant and poised dance—beautiful and timeless. It’s everything I’ve known since I was five, my body practically molded to the sound of classical music. The graceful movements, the pointed toes, the perfect lines—it’s my passion, the thing that drives me forward.

But sometimes, it’s hard to love something that demands so much from you.

“Twirl and twirl! Y/N! You are slouching again!”

Mrs. Ka’s sharp voice cut through the studio like a whip, snapping me out of my thoughts. I immediately straightened my posture and forced my arms into a more fluid movement as I attempted another pirouette.

“Better,” she said, her tone softer but still critical. “You have the talent, Y/N, but you need to focus. You must live in the moment, feel the music. Otherwise, you’ll never reach your full potential.”

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from sighing. Mrs. Ka meant well—she always did—but the pressure to be perfect weighed on me like a thousand bricks. Ballet wasn’t just about dancing; it was about discipline, control, and embodying perfection.

As the music played on, I forced myself to move with precision, ignoring the growing ache in my calves and the blister forming on my right foot. Ballet wasn’t supposed to be easy, I reminded myself. Greatness came with sacrifice.

But as the session ended and I collapsed onto the studio floor, stretching out my legs, I couldn’t help but feel...tired. Not just physically, but mentally.

Sometimes, I wondered what it would be like to dance without all the rules, to just let go and move however I wanted. Would it feel freeing? Would it feel like dancing for myself and not for someone else?

“Y/N, don’t forget your practice routine tonight at 8pm,” Mrs. Ka reminded as she gathered her things.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied automatically, even though my body was screaming for a break.

When the studio finally emptied, I sat alone, staring at my reflection in the mirrored wall. My bun was slightly messy, strands of hair sticking out, and my leotard clung to me like a second skin. I looked the part of a ballerina, but inside, I felt...trapped.

I closed my eyes, letting out a deep breath. Maybe I needed to find a way to rekindle the spark that had drawn me to ballet in the first place. Or maybe, just maybe, I needed to step outside of my comfort zone and try something different.

Y/N POV

At 5 pm the streets of Seoul were alive with energy, as they always were. The scent of spices from skewers wafted through the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and the occasional car horn. I pulled my warm jacket tighter around me, still in my ballet outfit from earlier. My muscles ached, but the cool evening breeze was a welcome relief.

As I navigated through the crowd, a familiar voice called out to me.

“Y/N-ah!”

I turned, spotting a familiar figure waving enthusiastically. “Jimin-ah!”

Jimin, one of my closest dance mates from ballet school, jogged toward me, his ever-cheerful smile lighting up his face. He wrapped me in a quick hug, his energy as infectious as always.

“Oh, Y/N! You’re here? I thought you were still at practice,” he said, tilting his head.

“Just finished,” I replied, a small sigh escaping my lips. “Mrs. Ka wants me back tonight, though. Apparently, my posture still isn’t up to her standards.”

“Ah,” Jimin said, wincing in sympathy. “She’s tough, huh?”

I nodded, but before I could dwell on it, he gestured to the boy standing beside him.

“Oh, this is Hoseok, by the way—a friend of mine,” Jimin introduced, nudging the boy gently.

I turned my attention to him and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Hoseok-shi! I’m Y/N!”

Hoseok’s eyes widened slightly, and a faint blush crept up his cheeks as he returned my smile. “N-Nice to meet you,” he stammered, quickly extending his hand for a handshake.

His hand was warm, his grip firm yet gentle. I noticed how his flustered expression softened when he smiled—a quiet, genuine kind of warmth.

“So, why are you here alone, Y/N-ah?” Jimin asked, his tone shifting to one of concern. “You shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself. Come with us—it’s safer since our homes are just a few blocks away from yours.”

I hesitated, glancing at my phone. “Well, my dad said he’d pick me up... but that was 45 minutes ago. I guess he forgot.”

Jimin frowned, crossing his arms. “Seriously? You’ve been waiting all this time? Come on, you’re not staying out here alone.”

“Jimin’s right,” Hoseok chimed in softly, though his gaze avoided mine. “It’s late, and it’s better if we stick together.”

I chuckled at their concern, but deep down, I appreciated it. “Alright, fine. Lead the way, gentlemen.”

As we walked, Jimin kept the conversation light, telling funny stories about their dance practice earlier. Hoseok was quieter, occasionally adding a comment here and there, but mostly keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

Despite his silence, there was something calming about Hoseok’s presence. It felt natural, even though we’d just met.

“So, Y/N,” Jimin said suddenly, grinning mischievously, “did you know Hoseok here is a hip-hop dancer?”

My eyebrows raised in surprise as I turned to Hoseok. “Really? That’s amazing!”

Hoseok scratched the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing special...”

“Are you kidding? He’s incredible!” Jimin cut in before I could respond. “You should see him in action sometime.”

I smiled at Hoseok, whose blush deepened. “I’d love to. Maybe you could teach me a move or two.”

He chuckled softly, his shyness fading for a moment. “Only if you promise to teach me how to pirouette.”

“Deal,” I said, laughing.

And just like that, the evening didn’t seem so tiring anymore.

Y/N POV

I pushed the door open to our house, the familiar scent of my dad’s cologne lingering faintly in the air. He was seated at the dining table, papers scattered in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose. His focus was split between a document and his laptop.

“I’m home,” I said, my voice tired but soft.

He looked up, startled. “Honey, I’m sorry. I forgot—it’s just—”

“It’s fine, Dad. Jimin came along.” I offered him a small, reassuring smile, hoping to ease the guilt in his eyes.

“Well, that was nice of him,” he said, returning my smile. This one was sincere but tinged with the weariness of a long day.

I nodded and gave him a lip-tight smile before heading upstairs. As I climbed the steps, I could feel the weight of the day pressing down on me. My bag hit the bed with a soft thud, and I closed my bedroom door behind me, leaning against it for a moment before sliding down to the floor.

I wasn’t mad at Dad. I never could be. Growing up, it was just the two of us against the world.

When I was two, my mother left. She cheated on Dad, and their divorce wasn’t just the end of a marriage—it was the end of a life he had envisioned for me and for himself. He didn’t talk about her much, and I never pushed him to. All I knew was that she chose to leave, and he chose to stay.

Dad raised me on his own, balancing work as a lawyer and parenting a child. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for him, but I could see it in the lines on his face, the way he sighed after a long day, the way he smiled at me even when he was exhausted.

And he did more than just raise me—he loved me. He showed me that even when life broke you, you could still hold onto the pieces that mattered most.

But the downside of his job was the time it took away from us. He earned more than enough to give me a comfortable life, but sometimes I’d trade all of it for just one evening of his undivided attention.

I stood up, peeling off my jacket and throwing it on the bed alongside my bag. My room felt quiet, almost too quiet, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound.

Walking to my desk, I sat down and stared at the photo frame perched on the corner. It was a picture of me and Dad from my ballet recital when I was eight. My tutu was crooked, and his tie was slightly undone, but we were both smiling—beaming, actually. That was a good day.

I picked up the frame and ran my thumb across the glass. “You’re doing your best, Dad,” I whispered. “And I’ll keep doing mine too.”

With a deep breath, I set the frame back down and stood up. Tomorrow was another day—a day to dance, to laugh, and to keep going, no matter how tired I felt.

Y/N POV

7:20 PM.

The halls of my ballet school were quiet, the sound of my footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors. Being early wasn’t just a rule here—it was an unspoken requirement. Mrs. Ka had drilled it into us that punctuality was a reflection of discipline, and in ballet, discipline was everything.

I pushed the studio door open, and the familiar silence greeted me. No chattering classmates, no authoritative commands from Mrs. Ka—just peace. The stillness wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and for once, I felt at ease.

Being the first to arrive had its perks. Practicing alone meant no one to judge, no one to critique, and no one to dictate my movements. It was just me, the music, and the freedom to express myself however I wanted.

I placed my bag in the corner, stretched for a few minutes, and queued up my music. The soft, haunting melody of “Love Story” by Indila began to fill the room, its rhythm pulling me in as if it were speaking directly to my soul.

Closing my eyes, I let the music guide me. Each movement flowed naturally—graceful extensions, delicate turns, and soft landings. I didn’t have to think; I just felt. My body responded to every note, every beat, creating a story with each step.

It was in these moments that I truly fell in love with ballet again—not as an obligation, but as an art form that allowed me to escape.

I finished with a slow arabesque, holding the final position as the last notes faded into silence. My chest rose and fell as I caught my breath, a small smile tugging at my lips.

But before I could savor the moment, the sound of clapping startled me.

I turned quickly, my cheeks flushing when I saw them—Jimin and Hoseok standing near the doorway, both of them watching me with amused expressions.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Jimin said, walking toward me with a wide grin. “I didn’t know you liked practicing solo.”

I managed an awkward laugh, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “I didn’t know you two were there.”

“Well,” Jimin said, glancing at Hoseok with a smirk, “we didn’t want to interrupt such a masterpiece.”

Hoseok, who had been quiet, stepped forward, his expression softer. “You’re... really amazing,” he said, his voice low but genuine.

I blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his words. “Thank you, Hoseok-shi,” I replied, feeling a warm blush creep up my neck.

Jimin, ever the playful one, clapped Hoseok on the back. “See, I told you she’s good, didn’t I? And Y/N, this guy here wouldn’t stop talking about how cool the studio looked when we walked in.”

Hoseok’s face turned a light shade of pink, and he quickly shook his head. “That’s not true! I just... thought it was nice.”

I giggled, feeling the tension ease. “Well, I’m glad you both enjoyed the show.”

Jimin plopped down on the floor, motioning for me to sit too. “Now that we’re all here, why don’t we show each other some moves? Ballet meets hip hop—what do you say, Y/N?”

I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. “You want me to try hip hop?”

“Why not?” Hoseok said, his lips curving into a small smile. “It could be fun.”

I looked between the two of them, their excitement contagious. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be just another routine practice after all.

Author's POV

Hoseok took a step toward the speaker, pulling out his phone. With a few taps, a vibrant, bass-heavy beat filled the studio. It was unmistakably hip-hop—energetic, bold, and brimming with attitude.

As the music kicked in, Hoseok’s demeanor shifted. His previously shy, reserved aura transformed into one of confidence and charisma. His body moved effortlessly to the rhythm, every pop, lock, and wave executed with precision and flair.

Y/N stood to the side, watching in awe. Each movement seemed to tell a story, the way his feet glided across the floor, how his arms hit the beats with sharp precision, and the way his entire body seemed to breathe with the music.

He wasn’t just dancing—he was commanding the room.

But what caught Y/N off guard the most was the way he kept stealing glances at her. Hoseok’s eyes would flicker her way between moves, as if silently asking, Are you watching?

And oh, she was.

Jimin leaned casually against the wall, a knowing smirk on his face as he observed the scene. It was clear he had seen this side of Hoseok before, but seeing Y/N’s reaction made the moment all the more entertaining.

As the music reached its climax, Hoseok executed a smooth spin and slid toward Y/N with perfect timing. His hand extended gracefully as he ended his freestyle with a light kiss on her hand, his gaze locking with hers.

The gesture was playful yet charming, and it sent a jolt of electricity through the room.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink as she let out a shy chuckle, her free hand covering her mouth. “That was... wow,” she said softly, her voice laced with genuine admiration.

Jimin, of course, couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease. “Hyung, that was smooth. Real smooth,” he quipped, crossing his arms with a smirk. “You’ve been practicing that move, haven’t you?”

Hoseok laughed, his confident facade faltering slightly as his own cheeks turned a faint pink. “It just... fit the moment,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck.

Y/N smiled, still flustered but undeniably impressed. “I don’t know if I can follow that. You’re incredible, Hoseok-shi.”

“You don’t have to follow it,” Hoseok said, his voice soft yet reassuring. “Just feel the music, like you do with ballet. That’s all hip hop is—feeling it.”

Jimin clapped his hands together. “Alright, Y/N! Your turn. Hoseok-hyung can guide you.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment but then nodded, a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling within her. Maybe this was her chance to step out of her comfort zone—and maybe, just maybe, Hoseok had something to do with that.

Y/N took a deep breath, her nerves bubbling to the surface as she stepped closer to Hoseok. The confidence she felt during ballet practice was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by the uncertainty of trying something entirely new.

“Alright,” she said, her voice light with a hint of nervous laughter. “Don’t laugh if I mess this up.”

Hoseok grinned, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. “No one’s going to laugh. Just have fun with it.”

The upbeat music continued to play, and Hoseok took a step back, giving her space to try. Y/N mimicked his earlier movements, starting with an awkward attempt at popping her shoulders and shifting her weight from side to side.

It wasn’t smooth. In fact, it was far from it. Her movements were stiff, her timing just a little off, and her normally graceful posture clashed hilariously with the relaxed flow of hip hop.

But she laughed—really laughed—as she stumbled through each motion, shaking her head at herself. “This is harder than it looks!” she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands for a moment.

To Hoseok, however, she was absolutely adorable. There was something so genuine about the way she tried, how she wasn’t afraid to laugh at herself, and the way her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“You’re doing great,” he said, his tone soft and reassuring. “You just need to loosen up. Don’t think about it too much—let the music take over.”

Y/N nodded, biting her lip as she tried again. This time, she let her body move a little more freely, her laughter becoming a part of the rhythm. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better, and Hoseok couldn’t help but smile.

“See? You’re getting it!” he said, clapping his hands in encouragement.

“Am I, though?” Y/N teased, spinning in a way that was far more ballet than hip hop.

Hoseok laughed, stepping closer. “Alright, let me help.” He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, guiding her into a looser posture. “Relax your shoulders, let your knees bend a little more... there you go.”

She followed his guidance, her movements becoming more natural. Even if she wasn’t a hip-hop dancer yet, she was having fun—and that was what mattered most.

Jimin, watching from the side, crossed his arms with a wide grin. “You two look like you’re in your own little world over there.”

Y/N shot him a playful glare. “You’re supposed to be helping, not commenting!”

Hoseok chuckled, stepping back to give her some space again. “Ignore him. You’re doing amazing, Y/N. Just keep going.”

She smiled, her confidence growing with each step. For the first time in a long time, she let herself just enjoy the moment, free from the strict expectations of ballet or the pressure to be perfect.

And Hoseok? He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Y/N Y/L/N and Park Jimin,” Mrs. Ka’s stern voice echoed through the room, sharp and commanding as always.

The sound startled all three of them, and Jimin immediately scrambled to pause the music blasting from the speaker. The abrupt silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the nervous shuffling of feet.

Y/N and Jimin quickly bowed, their voices overlapping as they greeted her in unison, “Good evening, Mrs. Ka.” Their nervous tones betrayed the respect they held for her authority.

Hoseok, however, was caught off guard. He stood frozen in place, unsure whether he should bow as well, and instead offered an awkward half-nod.

Mrs. Ka’s piercing eyes zeroed in on him immediately. She approached, her sharp heels clicking against the polished floor as she examined him from head to toe. Her gaze was cold, calculating, and entirely intimidating.

“And who, may I ask, is this?” she inquired, her tone laced with disapproval as her eyes narrowed slightly at Hoseok’s casual attire and hip-hop stance.

Before Hoseok could stammer out a response, Jimin stepped forward, his smile nervous but polite. “This is Hoseok, Mrs. Ka. He’s a friend of mine—a dancer. He, uh... just stopped by to visit.”

Mrs. Ka raised an eyebrow, her eyes flickering between the three of them. “A dancer, you say?” Her tone was skeptical, as if the very idea of Hoseok qualifying as a dancer was preposterous. “What style?”

“Hip hop,” Hoseok replied confidently, though his voice remained calm and respectful.

Mrs. Ka’s lips pressed into a thin line, her disapproval evident. “Hip hop,” she repeated, her voice dripping with disdain. “I see. And what, exactly, are you doing in my studio?”

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Hoseok said quickly, bowing deeply this time. “I was just showing Y/N and Jimin a few moves. I apologize if I’ve overstepped.”

Y/N stepped forward, her heart pounding as she mustered the courage to speak. “Mrs. Ka, Hoseok was just helping me loosen up. I asked him to. I wanted to... try something new.”

Mrs. Ka’s gaze shifted to Y/N, her expression softening just slightly. “And why, Y/N, would you think that hip hop—” she said the word as if it were distasteful, “—has any relevance to ballet?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Hoseok for a brief moment before replying. “Because... dance is about expression, isn’t it? Hoseok’s style may be different, but it has its own beauty. I thought learning from him might help me grow as a dancer.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, Mrs. Ka’s face betrayed the faintest flicker of surprise.

Jimin, sensing the tension, quickly added, “And he’s really good, Mrs. Ka. I’ve seen him dance before—he’s incredible.”

Mrs. Ka took a step back, folding her arms as she studied Hoseok once more. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp but measured.

“Very well. If this... Hoseok wishes to share his talent, he may do so. But,” she added, her gaze hardening as she turned to Hoseok, “you will follow the rules of this studio. No disruptions, no unapproved music, and no interference with my curriculum. Do I make myself clear?”

Hoseok nodded immediately. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Mrs. Ka straightened her posture, her presence commanding as ever. “Good. Y/N, Jimin, back to your positions. And Hoseok...” She paused, her tone almost grudging. “Show me this ‘hip hop’ you’re so proud of. Perhaps I’ll see if it has any merit.”

Hoseok blinked, surprised but determined. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, stepping forward with newfound confidence.

As the tension in the room shifted, Y/N couldn’t help but glance at Hoseok, a small smile tugging at her lips. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, but she had a feeling it was going to be unforgettable.

Hoseok glanced at Y/N, catching her worried expression. She gave him an encouraging nod, her lips curling into a soft, supportive smile. It was a silent message: You’ve got this.

He couldn’t help but smile back, feeling a sudden rush of determination. If there was one thing he was good at, it was letting his dance speak for him. And if this was his chance to show Mrs. Ka—and maybe even Y/N—what hip hop was all about, he was going to give it his all.

He stepped into the center of the studio, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his arms. His movements were smooth and deliberate, each stretch a prelude to the performance he was about to give.

Y/N watched with quiet admiration. There was something captivating about the way Hoseok carried himself—his confidence wasn’t boastful; it was simply rooted in his passion.

Mrs. Ka stood off to the side, arms crossed and expression unreadable. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said curtly.

Hoseok nodded, pulling out his phone to select the perfect track. He scrolled quickly, landing on a song with an infectious beat that showcased the best of hip hop’s energy and groove. The first notes of the music filled the room, and Hoseok stepped into position.

As soon as the beat dropped, Hoseok came alive. His body moved like it was in perfect sync with the rhythm—sharp pops, fluid waves, and intricate footwork blended together seamlessly. Every move was precise yet effortless, his transitions so smooth it was as if the music itself was dictating his steps.

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off him. She’d seen him dance before, but this was different. This wasn’t just freestyle—it was a performance. He wasn’t just dancing to impress Mrs. Ka; he was showing the room who he was as a dancer.

Mrs. Ka’s gaze, though initially skeptical, softened slightly as she observed his technique. While hip hop was far removed from the elegance of ballet, there was undeniable skill and artistry in Hoseok’s movements. His control, timing, and emotional expression were all on par with any professional dancer.

As the music built to its climax, Hoseok executed a series of fast, intricate isolations before transitioning into a powerful freeze, balancing on one hand with perfect stability. He held the pose for a beat before landing softly on his feet, finishing with a subtle bow.

The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the music fading out.

Y/N clapped first, her hands coming together enthusiastically as her face lit up with a proud smile. “That was amazing, Hoseok!” she said, her voice breaking the quiet.

Jimin joined in, whooping and clapping loudly. “Hyung, you killed it!”

Mrs. Ka remained still, her expression unreadable. Finally, she spoke. “Impressive,” she said, her tone begrudging but honest. “You have control and creativity. And I can see you take this seriously.”

Hoseok bowed again, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said humbly.

Mrs. Ka’s gaze flickered to Y/N and Jimin. “Y/N, Jimin, learn from this. While the style may be different, the dedication and precision are the same. You may continue practicing. Hoseok, if you wish to observe or assist, you may do so—within reason.”

Y/N beamed, turning to Hoseok with a grin. “You did it,” she whispered, her eyes shining with excitement.

Hoseok smiled back, his heart fluttering at her words. “Thanks. I’m just glad I didn’t fall on my face.”

As the group returned to their practice, Hoseok couldn’t help but feel like he’d gained more than just the approval of a strict ballet teacher—he’d earned Y/N’s admiration, and that, to him, was worth everything.

As Y/N returned to her position on the floor, her energy bubbling with excitement from Hoseok’s performance, Mrs. Ka’s sharp eyes flickered between the young man and her student. She was a seasoned observer, skilled at picking up on unspoken gestures and subtle cues—and there was something about the way Hoseok’s gaze lingered on Y/N that piqued her interest.

Jimin, standing off to the side, caught it too. Hoseok’s usually bright and playful demeanor seemed to soften whenever he looked at Y/N, his smiles lingering just a little longer, his eyes carrying a warmth that didn’t go unnoticed.

Mrs. Ka didn’t comment at first, but her lips curled ever so slightly into a knowing smirk. “Jimin,” she said in her sharp, no-nonsense tone, causing him to straighten up immediately.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Perhaps you and I are witnessing something here,” she said quietly, her voice low enough for only him to hear.

Jimin followed her gaze, glancing between Hoseok and Y/N. Hoseok was standing off to the side, hands casually in his pockets, but his eyes were fixed on Y/N as she prepared for the next part of her routine. He looked proud, almost as if every move she made was worthy of applause.

Jimin’s lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “Maybe we are, Mrs. Ka,” he replied, his voice light with teasing.

Mrs. Ka hummed, her eyes narrowing slightly as she folded her arms. “Let’s see if this... admiration becomes a distraction.”

Meanwhile, Y/N, oblivious to the quiet observation from her teacher and friend, took her position at the barre. She adjusted her posture, preparing for the next exercise. When she turned her head slightly, she noticed Hoseok watching her.

“What?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a playful edge.

Hoseok blinked, caught off guard, and quickly rubbed the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he said with a sheepish grin. “You’re just... really focused. It’s cool to see.”

Y/N blushed faintly, turning back to face the mirror as she suppressed a shy smile. “Well, I have to be. Mrs. Ka doesn’t let us slack, you know.”

Hoseok chuckled, and Jimin, standing nearby, leaned in to whisper, “Hyung, you’re not very subtle, you know.”

Hoseok turned to him, his face flushing slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jimin teased, smirking knowingly. “Just saying that if you keep looking at her like that, Mrs. Ka might make you practice pirouettes too.”

Hoseok laughed nervously, glancing at Mrs. Ka, who was now observing them all like a hawk. “I’m just appreciating her focus,” he mumbled defensively.

“Sure, sure,” Jimin said, his grin widening.

Mrs. Ka cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her. “If you’re done gossiping, Mr. Park and Mr. Jung, perhaps you’d like to join us in practicing discipline,” she said pointedly, her gaze lingering on Hoseok.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimin replied quickly, biting back a laugh.

Hoseok nodded as well, stealing one last glance at Y/N before focusing on Mrs. Ka’s instructions. But even as he tried to concentrate, his thoughts kept drifting back to the graceful ballerina who, without realizing it, had captured more than just his admiration.

Mrs. Ka, ever the curious yet composed figure, finally shifted her full attention to Hoseok after observing his interactions and dance performance. Her arms remained crossed as she approached him, her heels clicking against the polished floor.

“Mr. Jung, was it?” she asked, her tone sharp yet neutral.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hoseok replied respectfully, standing a little straighter under her scrutinizing gaze.

“I must admit, your performance surprised me,” she began, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Your movements are precise, and your sense of rhythm is exceptional. But I know nothing about you. Tell me, how old are you?”

Hoseok hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden questioning. “I’m 16, ma’am.”

“Sixteen,” she repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “And where are you from?”

“I live in Gwangju originally, but I’ve been staying here in Seoul to pursue dance more seriously,” Hoseok explained.

Mrs. Ka raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “And what, exactly, do you hope to achieve with hip hop dance?”

Hoseok’s face lit up with passion as he replied. “I want to be one of the best, ma’am. I want to inspire people with my style and show them how much emotion and storytelling can come through in hip hop. It’s not just moves to me—it’s a way of expressing everything I feel.”

Mrs. Ka studied him carefully, her sharp gaze softening just slightly as she caught the sincerity in his voice. “Ambitious,” she remarked. “And how did you come to be friends with Mr. Park?”

Jimin grinned, stepping forward to answer for him. “We go to the same school, ma’am. Hoseok’s known for his dancing there. I saw him practicing once, and we started talking about dance. The rest is history.”

Mrs. Ka nodded, her attention returning to Hoseok. “You seem determined, Mr. Jung, and I respect that. But I warn you, the world of dance—any style of dance—requires more than passion. It demands discipline, commitment, and the ability to adapt. Do you think you’re prepared for that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hoseok replied confidently. “I’m willing to work hard to get better, no matter what it takes.”

Mrs. Ka gave a small nod of approval, her stern demeanor easing slightly. “Very well. You may continue visiting this studio with Mr. Park, but only if you remain respectful of my rules and contribute positively to the atmosphere here. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Hoseok said, bowing deeply.

Mrs. Ka turned to Y/N, who had been watching the exchange silently, her hands clasped nervously. “Y/N, if Mr. Jung is going to be spending time here, perhaps you can show him the discipline and grace of ballet. You might both learn something from each other.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” Mrs. Ka’s sharp gaze flicked back to Hoseok one last time. “Don’t make me regret allowing you in here.”

“I won’t, ma’am,” Hoseok promised.

As Mrs. Ka turned and walked away, Jimin elbowed Hoseok playfully. “Well, hyung, looks like you’re officially part of the ballet squad now.”

Hoseok chuckled, his eyes drifting to Y/N, who was smiling shyly at him. “I guess I am,” he said softly, a warm feeling spreading through his chest.

The chilly night air accompanied the sound of footsteps echoing down the quiet streets of Seoul. Y/N walked between Hoseok and Jimin, her ballet bag slung over one shoulder. The streets were peaceful, lit by the warm glow of streetlights, and the three of them chatted casually as they neared Y/N’s house.

“I still can’t believe Mrs. Ka let you in the studio, Hoseok,” Y/N teased, nudging him lightly. “She usually doesn’t warm up to anyone that fast.”

Hoseok grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Guess I’m just that charming,” he joked, earning an eye roll from Jimin.

“More like she was impressed by your dancing,” Jimin said. “And maybe the fact that you couldn’t stop staring at Y/N helped.”

“Jimin!” Y/N exclaimed, her cheeks heating up as she glared at him.

Hoseok’s ears turned red, and he shot Jimin a warning look. “Yah, stop saying stuff like that!”

Jimin just smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “What? It’s true.”

Y/N shook her head, trying to change the subject. “Anyway, thanks for walking me home, guys. It’s nice not having to walk alone for once.”

“We wouldn’t let you,” Hoseok said sincerely, glancing at her. “It’s not safe this late.”

The trio arrived at Y/N’s house, and she dug into her bag for her keys. Before she could open the door, it swung open, revealing her father. He was dressed in his usual business attire, but his tie was loosened, and he looked tired from another long day.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice warm but tinged with surprise. His eyes flicked to Jimin and Hoseok, lingering on the former. “You’re home late.”

“Practice ran long,” Y/N replied, stepping aside to let her father see her companions. “Oh, and this is Jimin—you remember him from school—and his friend Hoseok.”

Her father’s expression softened slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on Jimin. “Ah, Jimin,” he said, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity. “You’re the one Y/N’s always mentioning.”

“Dad!” Y/N protested, mortified.

Jimin chuckled nervously, bowing politely. “It’s nice to meet you again, sir. I just wanted to make sure Y/N got home safely.”

Her father raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “That’s very considerate of you.” Then, after a pause, he added, “You know, I’ve always wondered… are you and my daughter—”

“Dad!” Y/N cut him off, her face turning bright red. “Jimin and I are just friends. Don’t start.”

Jimin laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Y-yeah, sir. Just friends.”

Her father gave a small, knowing smile but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he turned to Hoseok, who had been quiet the whole time. “And you’re... Hoseok, was it?”

“Yes, sir,” Hoseok said, bowing respectfully. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her father nodded, his expression appraising. “You’re a dancer too?”

“Yes, sir. Hip hop,” Hoseok replied, standing a little straighter.

“Hm. Well, thank you both for looking out for my daughter,” her father said, his tone genuine. “It’s nice to know she has good friends.”

Y/N smiled shyly, feeling a sense of relief as her father stepped aside to let her in. “Thanks again, you two,” she said, turning to Hoseok and Jimin.

“No problem,” Jimin replied with a grin.

“Anytime,” Hoseok added, his smile warm.

As they walked away, Y/N could hear Jimin teasing Hoseok under his breath. “I think her dad likes me better than you, hyung.”

Hoseok groaned. “Yah, I didn’t even do anything wrong!”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh softly as she closed the door, shaking her head at the two of them.

It was Saturday evening, and the tension in Y/N’s house was unbearable. Her mother, who had been absent for most of her life, stood in the living room, her sharp voice cutting through the quiet atmosphere.

“I have every right to see her!” her mother yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at her father.

“You walked away from her when she was two,” her father retorted, his voice firm but controlled. “You don’t get to show up now and demand anything.”

Y/N stood frozen at the top of the stairs, clutching the banister tightly. She hadn’t seen her mother in years, and now, here she was, trying to take her away from the life she had built with her dad.

“I’ve changed,” her mother insisted. “I can give her a better life—better opportunities.”

Her father’s jaw clenched. “You think money is all that matters? Y/N has a home here. She’s happy. She doesn’t need you disrupting her life.”

Unable to listen anymore, Y/N bolted down the stairs, tears already welling up in her eyes. “Stop it!” she shouted, her voice trembling. Both her parents turned to look at her, their argument coming to an abrupt halt.

“Y/N,” her mother said softly, taking a step toward her. “I just want what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” Y/N’s voice cracked as tears streamed down her cheeks. “You think showing up after all these years and trying to take me away is what’s best for me?”

Her mother’s face fell, but Y/N didn’t wait for a response. She grabbed her jacket and ran out the door, ignoring her father’s calls for her to stop.

Y/N didn’t know how far she had run, but she eventually found herself in a bustling plaza. The sound of music and cheering snapped her out of her thoughts. A crowd had gathered around a makeshift stage where a street dancing competition was in full swing.

She weaved through the crowd, her heart still pounding from the argument and the run. As she reached the front, she froze. There, on the stage, was Hoseok.

He moved with such energy and precision, his passion evident in every step. The crowd roared as he ended his routine with a powerful move, his confidence radiating as he smiled and bowed.

As Hoseok stepped off the stage, his eyes scanned the crowd—and then he saw her. His smile faltered when he noticed her red, tear-streaked eyes. Without hesitation, he made his way toward her.

“Y/N?” he said softly, his voice filled with concern. “What happened?”

Y/N tried to wipe her tears away, but they kept falling. “I… I just needed to get away,” she whispered.

Hoseok placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the crowd to a quieter corner. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice soothing. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

But the moment she looked at his kind eyes, the words spilled out. She told him everything—about her mother’s sudden appearance, the fight, and how she felt torn between two worlds.

Hoseok listened intently, his expression softening with every word. When she finished, he said, “I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you, but you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here, okay?”

Y/N nodded, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, Hoseok.”

“Come on,” he said, standing up and offering her his hand. “Let’s do something to take your mind off things.”

The two spent the next few hours wandering around the plaza, eating street food and laughing as Hoseok did silly dance moves to cheer her up. For the first time that evening, Y/N felt a sense of peace.

As the night deepened, Y/N’s father arrived at the plaza, his eyes scanning the crowd frantically. When he finally spotted her sitting on a bench with Hoseok, relief washed over his face.

“Y/N!” he called, rushing over.

Y/N stood up, guilt and worry written all over her face. “Dad, I’m sorry—”

Her father pulled her into a tight hug, cutting her off. “Don’t apologize. I was so worried about you.”

Hoseok stepped back, giving them space, but Y/N’s father turned to him with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you for looking after her,” he said sincerely.

Hoseok smiled. “Of course. I’m glad I could help.”

Y/N looked between the two, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions. In that moment, she realized how lucky she was to have people who cared so much about her.

As they made their way home, Y/N glanced at Hoseok one last time, her eyes meeting his. He gave her an encouraging smile, and she knew she wasn’t alone—not with people like him in her life.

Weeks had passed, and Y/N found herself spending more and more time with Hoseok. Whether it was sharing laughs over street food, practicing their respective dances together, or simply walking through the city, their bond grew stronger with each passing day. Hoseok had a way of making her feel seen, like she could be herself without the weight of expectations or judgment.

Jimin, however, had returned to Busan to visit his family. While Y/N missed her close friend, Hoseok filled the void effortlessly, and the two had become inseparable.

One sunny afternoon, Y/N and Hoseok sat on a park bench near a dance studio. Hoseok was scrolling through his phone while Y/N twirled a blade of grass between her fingers. The day was calm, and for once, Y/N felt a sense of stability.

“Hey,” Hoseok said, nudging her gently. “You’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind?”

Y/N smiled softly. “Nothing, really. Just… enjoying the peace, I guess.”

Hoseok grinned. “Well, you deserve it after everything you’ve been through.”

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to see her father’s name flashing on the screen. Her heart sank; her dad rarely called during the day, and when he did, it was usually important.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice hesitant.

“Y/N,” her father’s voice came through, shaky and laced with emotion. “Honey, I—” His voice broke, and Y/N immediately sat up straighter.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” she asked, panic rising in her chest.

Her father took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s your mother. She’s filed for custody… She wants to take you to the U.S. to live with her and her husband.”

Y/N felt the world tilt around her. “What?!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling. “She can’t do that. I don’t want to go!”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m doing everything I can to fight it,” her father said, his voice cracking. “But she has money, and she’s pulling strings to make this happen. I’m scared, Y/N. I can’t lose you.”

Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes as she gripped her phone tightly. “You won’t lose me, Dad. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hoseok, who had been quietly observing, reached out and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Y/N glanced at him, her vision blurred by tears, and he gave her an encouraging nod.

“I’ll come home now,” Y/N said into the phone, her voice steadier than she felt. “We’ll figure this out together.”

Her father sniffled on the other end. “Okay. Be careful, sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”

When she hung up, she turned to Hoseok, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “She’s trying to take me away,” she said, her voice cracking. “She wants to send me to the U.S. to live with her and her new husband.”

Hoseok’s expression darkened with concern. “She can’t just uproot your life like that. You have a say in this, Y/N.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, wiping her tears away. “I feel like everything’s falling apart.”

Hoseok stood and extended his hand to her. “You’re not alone in this. Let’s go. I’ll walk you home, and we’ll figure this out together.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. His warmth and confidence steadied her, and she nodded. “Thank you, Hoseok. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As they made their way to her house, Hoseok stayed close, offering quiet reassurance. Y/N couldn’t shake the dread settling in her chest, but with Hoseok by her side, she felt a glimmer of hope.

The courtroom was heavy with tension as Y/N sat beside her father, her hands trembling in her lap. Across the room sat her mother, poised and confident, with her lawyer presenting a compelling case. Hoseok was seated in the gallery, his presence a quiet but constant source of support. Every now and then, Y/N would glance back at him, and he’d give her an encouraging nod or a soft smile, trying to keep her spirits up.

Her father, however, looked drained. The stress of the trial, the fear of losing his daughter, and the weight of fighting an uphill battle were etched into every line on his face. Y/N’s heart broke seeing him like that.

When the judge finally spoke, the room seemed to hold its breath.

“After careful consideration of all presented evidence and arguments, the court finds that the custody of Y/N Y/L/N will be granted to her mother, effective immediately.”

The words hit Y/N like a punch to the gut. Her heart sank, and tears sprang to her eyes. Her father’s head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he tried to keep his composure.

“No,” Y/N whispered, her voice cracking. “This isn’t fair.”

Her mother stood, her face a mix of triumph and a feigned sadness. She approached Y/N, reaching out a hand. “Sweetheart, this is for the best. You’ll have a wonderful life in the U.S. with me.”

Y/N recoiled, her emotions boiling over. “You don’t know what’s best for me! You’ve been gone for years, and now you think you can just swoop in and take me away?” Her voice trembled with anger and heartbreak.

“Y/N,” her mother began, but Y/N shook her head.

“No! I want to stay with Dad. I don’t care what the court says,” she cried, turning to her father, who looked utterly broken.

Hoseok stood from the gallery, his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to rush to her, to tell the court how much her life here mattered, how much she didn’t want this, but there was nothing he could do.

As the bailiff stepped forward to gently urge Y/N to leave with her mother, Hoseok finally moved. He caught her gaze and mouthed, “I’m here.”

Y/N’s tears flowed freely as she nodded at him, grateful for his unwavering support even in the face of something so devastating.

Later that evening, Hoseok found Y/N sitting alone on a bench in the park where they often spent time together. She hugged her knees to her chest, her eyes red and swollen.

He approached quietly, sitting down beside her without a word. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy but somehow comforting.

“Everything’s changing,” Y/N finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to go, Hoseok. I don’t want to leave my dad, or my friends, or… you.”

Hoseok’s chest ached at her words. He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know, Y/N. I know this feels impossible right now, but you’re stronger than you think. No matter where you are, you’ll always have people who care about you—your dad, Jimin, and me.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “But what if I lose all of that? What if I lose you?”

Hoseok shook his head firmly. “You won’t lose me, Y/N. I promise. We’ll figure out a way to stay connected. And when you need me, I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and leaned into him, finding solace in his warmth. Hoseok wrapped an arm around her, holding her close as she let herself cry.

As the night grew colder, Hoseok finally spoke again. “You have a voice, Y/N. Even if the court ruled against you, that doesn’t mean you stop fighting for what you want. Maybe this isn’t over yet.”

His words planted a seed of hope in Y/N’s heart, and for the first time since the trial, she felt a flicker of determination.

The dance studio was dimly lit, its familiar walls offering Y/N a fragile sense of solace as she sat on the floor, knees hugged to her chest. Her tear-streaked face was a portrait of heartbreak and anger. Jimin knelt beside her, a gentle hand on her shoulder, while Hoseok paced nearby, his frustration simmering under the surface. Mrs. Ka, standing by the barre, observed the scene with a quiet, protective demeanor.

“You’re not alone, Y/N,” Jimin said softly, his voice steady but full of concern. “We’re all here for you.”

Hoseok stopped pacing and crouched in front of her, his eyes locking onto hers. “Y/N, you don’t have to keep everything bottled up. Whatever you’re feeling—let it out. We’re here.”

She looked up at him, her lips trembling. “I feel like I’m being ripped away from everything I love,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s not fair.”

Before anyone could respond, the studio door swung open with a loud thud. The sound of heels clicking against the polished floor filled the room, and Y/N’s mother appeared, exuding an air of authority and impatience. Her perfectly pressed suit and cold gaze clashed sharply with the warmth and familiarity of the studio.

“Y/N,” her mother called, her tone clipped. “It’s time to go. Your things are already packed and sent to the penthouse. Our flight leaves tomorrow morning.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick. Jimin and Hoseok both stood, instinctively placing themselves closer to Y/N. Mrs. Ka stepped forward, her sharp eyes narrowing at the intruder.

“Mrs. Y/L/N,” Mrs. Ka said, her voice calm but firm, “you can’t just barge in here and uproot this girl’s life like this. Have you even considered what she wants?”

Y/N’s mother crossed her arms, her lips curling into a condescending smile. “This is not a discussion, Mrs. Ka. Y/N is a minor, and I am her mother. What I decide is what’s best for her.”

Mrs. Ka didn’t back down. “A mother? After years of absence, you suddenly swoop in, claiming authority over a child you barely know? This girl has built a life here, one filled with people who care about her. You think you can buy her love with a penthouse and a plane ticket?”

Y/N’s mother’s gaze hardened, and she scoffed. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. My lawyers have already secured custody. This is no longer up for debate.”

Hoseok clenched his fists but held his tongue, his jaw tight. Jimin, ever the peacemaker, spoke up, his voice steady but with a hint of defiance. “With all due respect, Mrs. Y/L/N, have you even asked Y/N what she wants? Or do you only care about winning this custody battle?”

Her mother’s eyes flicked to Jimin, her expression cold and dismissive. “And who are you, exactly? Another distraction in her life? She doesn’t need ballet friends or… street dancers.” Her gaze fell on Hoseok, her disdain palpable. “She needs structure, discipline, and a future that only I can provide.”

Hoseok stepped forward, unable to hold back any longer. “She doesn’t need someone who’s barely been there for her to decide what’s best for her. Y/N deserves to have a say in her own life. Maybe if you spent less time looking down on the people who actually care about her, you’d understand that.”

Y/N’s mother glared at him, but before she could retort, Mrs. Ka interjected, her voice sharp and commanding. “Enough. This is Y/N’s life we’re talking about, not a game of who has the most power. You may have won custody, but that doesn’t mean you’ve won her heart.”

Y/N, who had been silent throughout the confrontation, finally stood, her voice trembling but determined. “Stop.”

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to her.

“I don’t want to go,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her face. “I don’t care about penthouses or flights to the U.S. I want to stay with my dad. I want to stay with the people who actually know me, who actually care about me.”

Her mother’s expression softened for a brief moment, but it quickly hardened again. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but you’ll thank me someday. This is what’s best for you.”

“No, it’s not,” Y/N shot back, her voice rising. “What’s best for me is having a choice. And right now, you’re taking that away from me.”

Hoseok and Jimin exchanged glances, their hearts breaking for her but also swelling with pride at her courage. Mrs. Ka placed a comforting hand on Y/N’s shoulder, her silent support loud and clear.

Y/N’s mother let out a frustrated sigh, pulling her phone from her bag. “We’re done here. I’ll see you at the penthouse, Y/N. And don’t make me call the authorities to get you there.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the studio, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

As soon as the door closed, Y/N collapsed into Hoseok’s arms, her sobs breaking the quiet. He held her tightly, whispering soothing words as Jimin and Mrs. Ka looked on with concern.

“You’re not alone, Y/N,” Hoseok murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. “We’ll figure this out together. I promise.”

Author's POV

The morning was unusually quiet as Y/N stood at the airport terminal, clutching her boarding pass. Her heart felt heavy, a mixture of sadness and resignation swirling in her chest. Her mother stood a few steps ahead, briskly checking documents and speaking with the flight attendant, oblivious to the storm raging inside her daughter.

Y/N glanced at the glass doors behind her one last time, silently praying for a miracle. She hoped to see her dad rushing in, Hoseok with that determined fire in his eyes, and Jimin offering his usual calm reassurance. But all she saw was the steady flow of strangers moving through the terminal.

Meanwhile…

Hoseok, Jimin, and Y/N’s dad were racing through the crowded streets of Seoul. Her father gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white, as he cursed every red light and traffic jam in their path.

“We’ll make it,” Hoseok said, his voice firm, though his heart was pounding in panic. He looked at Jimin, who sat quietly in the back seat, worry etched into his face.

“She can’t leave like this,” Jimin murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Hoseok clenched his fists. “She won’t. Not if we get there in time.”

But deep down, a gnawing fear told him they might already be too late.

Y/N’s boarding gate was announced, and her mother gestured for her to follow. As they walked toward the gate, Y/N slowed her pace, turning one last time toward the terminal’s entrance. Her heart leapt when she spotted three figures running toward the security checkpoint—her dad, Jimin, and Hoseok.

“Dad!” Y/N cried out, her voice cracking with emotion.

Her father shouted her name, his voice filled with desperation. Hoseok and Jimin followed close behind, their faces etched with determination. But the security barrier stood between them, and the flight attendant ushered Y/N and her mother forward.

Tears streamed down her face as she mouthed, “I’m sorry,” before disappearing through the gate.

Hoseok froze, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he watched her leave. The sight of her disappearing felt like someone had punched him in the chest. He wanted to scream, to run after her, but there was nothing he could do.

Jimin placed a hand on his shoulder, his own tears threatening to spill. “She didn’t want this, Hoseok. You know that.”

Y/N’s father stood silent, his shoulders sagging as the reality of the situation sank in.

Hoseok clenched his jaw, his hands trembling. “I’ll find her,” he whispered, his voice filled with quiet resolve. “Someday, I’ll find her. And when I do, I’ll make sure she knows she’s not alone.”

At 24 years old, Jung Hoseok had become a name known worldwide. From underground battles to global stages, he had risen to fame as a hip-hop icon and rapper, renowned for his incredible talent, charisma, and passion. He poured his heart into every performance, his journey fueled by one unwavering promise: to find Y/N.

Underneath the glittering lights and roaring applause, there was still a part of him that felt incomplete. Every city he toured, every crowd he performed for, he kept an eye out for her. He knew she was out there somewhere, and he wouldn’t stop until he saw her again.

One evening, after a sold-out show in Los Angeles, Hoseok sat backstage, scrolling through messages on his phone. His manager handed him a piece of fan mail—a handwritten letter addressed specifically to him.

As he opened it, his breath caught in his throat. The neat handwriting was unmistakable, and the words on the page made his heart race.

“Hoseok, if you’re reading this, it means I finally worked up the courage to reach out. I’ve been following your journey, and I’m so proud of you. I never forgot the promise you made that day, and I hope you know… I kept waiting. – Y/N”

Hoseok’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as a small smile spread across his face. For the first time in years, he felt the pieces of his heart beginning to come back together.

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice steady but filled with urgency.

His manager glanced at the envelope. “There’s a return address. She’s here. In L.A.”

Hoseok stood, his heart pounding as hope surged through him. “Then let’s go.”

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over Los Angeles as Y/N sat on the couch of her modest apartment, lost in thought. It had been years since she’d left Seoul, and though she’d managed to build a new life in the U.S., her heart never quite felt whole. Memories of her father, Jimin, and Hoseok lingered in her mind, often sneaking up on her when she least expected it.

The faint chime of her doorbell snapped her out of her reverie. She frowned, glancing at the clock. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Rising from the couch, she walked to the door and peered through the peephole. Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. She blinked, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Slowly, she opened the door.

Standing there, with the biggest smile and teary eyes, was Hoseok. Beside him were Jimin and her father, both looking just as emotional.

“Y/N,” Hoseok said, his voice soft yet filled with so much emotion that it made her knees weak.

For a moment, she froze, staring at the three men who had been her entire world years ago. Then, as if a dam broke, she launched herself into her father’s arms, tears streaming down her face.

“Dad!” she sobbed, clinging to him tightly.

Her father hugged her just as fiercely, his own tears falling freely. “I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Every single day.”

Y/N pulled away just enough to look at Jimin, who was already opening his arms. “Jimin-ah!” she cried, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Y/N-ah, it’s so good to see you,” Jimin said, his voice breaking.

Finally, she turned to Hoseok, who stood a few steps behind them, his hands buried in his pockets, as if unsure if he should step forward.

“Hoseok,” she said softly, her voice trembling.

He smiled gently, his eyes glistening. “Hey.”

Without hesitation, Y/N ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He caught her easily, holding her tightly as if afraid she’d slip away again.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

“I promised I’d find you, didn’t I?” he murmured, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “And I never break my promises.”

She smiled through her tears, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of having them all back in her life.

The four of them sat together in Y/N’s small living room, catching up on everything they’d missed. Her father shared stories of home, Jimin talked about his travels and how much he missed their late-night ballet practices, and Hoseok recounted his journey to becoming the global star he was today.

“I’ve been following you,” Y/N admitted shyly, glancing at Hoseok. “I watched your performances, your interviews. You’ve come so far.”

Hoseok chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wasn’t just for me,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “Everything I did, every stage I performed on, I did it hoping you’d see me. Hoping it’d lead me back to you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and Jimin smirked knowingly, elbowing her lightly.

Her father, who had been quiet for a while, cleared his throat. “Y/N, I fought for you back then, but I didn’t fight hard enough. I’m so sorry I let you go. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N reached out to hold his hand, squeezing it tightly. “You didn’t let me go, Dad. You did everything you could. And now… we’re here.”

The reunion was bittersweet, filled with laughter, tears, and a renewed sense of hope. For the first time in years, Y/N felt like she belonged again, surrounded by the people who truly cared for her.

Later That Evening…

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in a warm glow, Hoseok and Y/N found themselves alone on the balcony. The city stretched out before them, its lights twinkling like stars.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Y/N said, leaning against the railing.

Hoseok smiled, leaning beside her. “I meant what I said, Y/N. I never stopped looking for you. And now that I’ve found you, I’m not letting you go.”

She turned to him, her heart swelling. “Thank you, Hoseok. For everything.”

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to thank me. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Stay,” he said simply, his voice soft but resolute. “No matter what happens, stay with us. With me.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she nodded. “I promise.”

Hoseok smiled, and in that moment, with the city lights shimmering around them and the promise of a brighter future ahead, everything felt right. Everything is now dancing in harmony.

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